


Golden On My Skin

by Eliza_Grace



Series: Marked in Gold [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (I mean who else just straight up lies to Voldemort?), (apart from the obvious soulmark parts), (is she ever not?), Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Narcissa Black Malfoy, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Narcissa Black Malfoy-centric, Off-screen Character Death, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22115530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza_Grace/pseuds/Eliza_Grace
Summary: Narcissa was four and she dreamed of castles and soulmates and happily-ever-after.Narcissa was fourteen and she wondered what her soulmate carried on their skin.Narcissa was twenty-four and she wanted her painful soulmark back, because these days she just felt numb.Narcissa was thirty-four and when she saw her cousin's face in the daily prophet (half crazed with rage) she thought not about the people he killed but about the reason why the stars on his face were no longer golden.Narcissa will be forty-four and her son will get married and his soulmark will remain golden and she will find that maybe she was wrong after all. Not all soulmarks bring pain.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Bellatrix Black Lestrange & Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Draco Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Andromeda Black Tonks, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Elaine Prewett (OC), Narcissa Black Malfoy & Mary MacDonald, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Serenity Allard (OC), Narcissa Black/Dalton McKinnon (OC), Regulus Black & Narcissa Black Malfoy, Regulus Black/Mary Macdonald, Sirius Black & Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: Marked in Gold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595077
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Golden On My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> A few things before we begin: As will become apparent early on, I've messed with the ages of the Black sisters a little, Bellatrix and Andromeda remain two years apart in age, but Narcissa is born five years after Andromeda (although with a September birthday she is a 1st year when Andromeda is a 7th year). Narcissa is thus closest in age to Sirius who is little more than a year younger than she is, while Regulus is almost three years younger, but only two years below her in school. There is a reason for this change, but it's never touched on in the story. I might write another one at some point where it's explained, but so far, I haven't gotten around to it (or rather I haven't gotten around to finishing one that I like well enough to post).
> 
> We follow Narcissa through the years, but the glimpses we get do not always take place at the same time of year. If it confuses you, I could probably tell you (more or less exactly) when each moment takes place, but I'd advise you to just go with it. 
> 
> I've borrowed some dialogue from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as well as Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I'm sure you'll recognize it when you get to that point. Those words are obviously not mine. The rest of them are, though.
> 
> A big thank you (as always) to pottermommy1118 on FF.net for thinking up Dalton and Serenity and for letting me borrow them. Should she ever get around to posting works they star in, know that if anyone stole characters it was me. (I swear I asked before borrowing them, though.)
> 
> This one is rather close to my heart, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Have fun!

# Golden On My Skin

Narcissa was four and she dreamed of castles and princes and happily-ever-after. Andy told her fairy tales and Bella took her up to the roof where they could no longer hear their parents argue. And one night, shortly before Bella left for her second year at Hogwarts, the three of them sat on Andy’s bed and her sisters explained to her the significance of the marks they carried on their body.

“They are called soulmarks,” Andy said and pulled up her nightdress to reveal the thin band of stars around her ankle that went on to twine around her calf and the small dolphin there. “This is mine,” she traced the dolphin lightly, and Narcissa wanted to reach out and touch it as well, but she did not dare. It was too private a thing for that. She could sense that even at the tender age of four. “The stars,” Andy continued quietly, “are me. The dolphin,” and here her voice became almost reverent, “is my soulmate.”

“All marks are like that,” Bella said revealing her own. Narcissa had seen the stars on Bella’s hand before, had been fascinated by them and the way the glinted silver in the firelight, but she hadn’t seen the snake that wrapped around her wrist. “A representation of you,” she motioned to the stars, “and a representation of your soulmate.” The way her fingers brushed over the snake’s head was almost tender and Narcissa was startled. Bella was not gentle or tender or loving. Bella was hard, Bella was strong, Bella was fierce.

“No two marks are the same,” Andy told her. “Your soulmate’s representation of you will not be the same as your representation of them or even yourself.”

Narcissa stared at them wide-eyed and it was all she could do to nod as she took in the information they had given her. Bella smiled one of her rare true smiles. “Off to bed, Cissy. It is late.”

Andy got up and held out her hand. That night, Andy told her a story of soulmates. Years later, Narcissa would consider it quite telling that her sisters, then ten and twelve, were the ones who taught her what a soulmark was and not her parents. But then, Narcissa was four and she dreamed of castles and soulmates and happily-ever-after.

* * *

Narcissa was seven and she spent endless hours studying her soulmark in the mirror. It was a golden eagle nestled in a bed of equally golden vines on her left side. It had been small, once, no bigger than the palm of her hand, but it had been growing lately. Wispy tendrils at first, vines no thicker than the lines of ink her carefully practiced calligraphy put on parchment. Then, the leaves came and the vines grew thicker. It was too large to cover with her hand now, and she did not think it would stop growing. Narcissa wanted to ask if that was normal, but Bella and Andy were away at school and there was only one thing her parents had ever taught her about soulmarks.

“You are a lady, Narcissa Cassiopeia,” mother had said. Mother always wore high collars. _Because it is proper_ , said mother. _Because her soulmark is on the back of her neck_ , said Bella. Narcissa was inclined to believe her sister. “A lady never reveals her mark to any but her husband,” mother had looked at her, lips pursed, eyes hard. “Where is your mark, Narcissa?” Narcissa had touched her ribs lightly and mother had nodded approvingly. “That is a proper place for a mark,” she had said. “Easy to hide.”

“Mother?”

“Yes, darling?”

“How does one know they found their soulmate?” Her voice had been quiet, unsure. She had averted her eyes.

Mother had taken her chin and forced her to look at her. “Quite simply. One does not. And it does not matter. Do you know why?” Narcissa had wanted to shake her head, but mother’s grip had been too tight. “It does not matter, because soulmates and true love and other such nonsense are for lesser people. We are not lesser, Narcissa. You will marry for the sake of your family, not for love. Love does not last, pearl,” her voice had become almost tender, but her eyes had been hard as stone still, “But family does. And family always comes first. Am I understood?”

“Yes mother,” Narcissa had whispered. She had never again asked her mother about soulmates. She had never even attempted to ask father. But in the privacy of her room, Narcissa was seven and she spent endless hours studying her soulmark in the mirror.

* * *

Narcissa was eight and her soulmark was still growing. Bella and Andy returned home for the summer, and Bella complained about OWLs and Andy laughed at her and Narcissa was so glad to have them back, because the house felt dead without them. Mother watched disapprovingly, of course, because they were not prim and proper, they were not perfect pureblood ladies. But this summer she seemed more content to let them be. Perhaps it was because she and father had started talks with several other pureblood families about marriage contracts. Or perhaps it was because Bella had started wearing gloves.

“Isn’t it warm?” Narcissa asked her one especially hot August day, running a finger over the back of Bella’s satin gloved left hand (she had learned long ago that the right hand was taboo).

“A little,” Bella admitted, a hint of a smile playing on her lips and Narcissa knew it was because there were only the two of them here. Bella had started to hide herself even from Andy and it scared the youngest sister, but at least sometimes she could still see this side of her.

“Why do you wear them then?”

Bella paused, considering and then she started pulling her left glove off, finger by finger. “It’s mysterious, isn’t it?” There was a coy smile on her face and Narcissa may have been young, but she knew her sisters and she could see instantly that it was false. The other glove followed. The back of Bella’s right hand was still sprinkled with silver stars and Narcissa smiled, because some things did not change. Then, Bella turned over her hand and Narcissa saw the head of a snake resting on Bella’s pulse point. “My mark attracts attention,” she said softly. “Some have tried to see all of it.” She got up then and put the glove back on so forcefully that it tore just a little. “They have no right!” And suddenly Bella was furious and Narcissa fled the room and sought Andy’s arms. Still, Bella’s mark was different from the last time she had seen it and it left her more at ease with her own ever-expanding mark. Narcissa was eight and her soulmark was still growing.

* * *

Narcissa was nine and she had been paying more attention to other people’s soulmarks lately. She had also been spending more time with her cousins lately. Maybe those two things were related. After all, Sirius was brash and bold and made no effort to conceal the stars that travelled up the side of his neck to his face. Regulus was more reserved than his brother, quieter, and perfectly content hiding in Sirius’ shadow or so it seemed. He was also much more diligent about hiding his mark, but once, when his hair was freshly cut, Narcissa spotted a lone, golden star at the base of his neck. She stared, fascinated for a moment, then she caught herself and studied her fingernails instead. But her thoughts were with the stars.

They were beautiful. Graceful on Andy, playful on Sirius, mysterious on Bella, enchanting on Regulus. Nothing at all on her. Narcissa thought of the ever-growing vines on her ribcage and for a moment she envied her sisters and cousins, envied them this clear connection to each other, the sense of belonging, the beauty on their skin. She was already the odd one out, as blonde as she was, but then to not even have the stars on her body... She was sure it was a Black family trait, too, even if no one spoke of it, because she had glimpsed a star on Uncle Orion’s collarbone, three sprinkled along the curve of father’s ear and at least two dozen all over the exposed parts of Aunt Cassie’s skin. Perhaps she too would one day be covered. But she rather felt being covered in plants was less attractive than being covered in stars.

Still, as she absently brushed her fingers over her side, she thought that there was beauty in her mark as well. She loved the way it grew almost like a real plant, she loved the tiny first leaves that grew stronger with time. She loved the eagle in its bed of tightly interwoven vines. She loved the flower buds she had spotted just yesterday. She loved her mark.

“Cissy!” Sirius’s voice jolted her from her thoughts. “You’ll never believe what I did!” She tuned him out as he launched into an excited and probably exaggerated story, too fascinated by the way the light caught in a star next to his right eye. Narcissa was nine and she had been paying more attention to other people’s soulmarks lately.

* * *

Narcissa was ten and soulmarks had become even more of a taboo in the house. Bella was getting married. Bella was getting married and no one knew if he was her soulmate. And apart from Narcissa herself no one seemed to care either. Not even Bella. She had so many questions, but no one to ask, so she stayed silent.

The day of the wedding came and mother handed her a simple but stunning dark green dress and matching gloves and told her to get changed. So Narcissa did. She retreated to her room and put on the dress. It was supposed to be buttoned at the back, and she struggled with the endless row of buttons smaller than her fingernails. They slipped out of her fingers, the mother-of-pearl shining in the light as she strained to see what she was doing in the mirror. She considered asking for help briefly, but she could still see a few of the golden vines and she did not want anyone to know that her soulmark had grown so much. Mother would have a fit if she discovered how much harder to hide it had become. 

It turned out that she did not have to ask for help after all, because the door opened and Andy entered. Neither of them spoke a word as Andy walked up to her and did up the buttons carefully.

“It has grown,” Andy said finally as she tied the sash into a bow behind Narcissa’s back.

“It has,” Narcissa agreed quietly. “Is that normal?”

“Perhaps,” Andy replied. Narcissa glanced over her shoulder to see her arranging the bow to perfection. “Who can say with these things?”

“Did yours ever grow?” Narcissa picked up the gloves.

“It grew along with me,” Andy smiled and kissed the top of her head. “Its size in relation to the size of my body has stayed roughly the same over the years.” They sank into silence as Narcissa let Andy guide her to a chair and her sister very carefully did her hair. When it was done, the two of them simply stayed as they were and looked in the mirror.

“Andy?” Narcissa asked after a while.

“Yes, Cissy love?”

“Why is Bella marrying him?”

Andy took a while to reply. “Because mother and father told her to,” she tried.

Narcissa frowned. “Bella never does what mother and father tell her to.”

“No. No, I suppose she does not.” Andy sighed quietly and bowed her head. “But Bella… Bella does not believe in happily-ever-after. And she wants to do things. You know mother and father would not let her go and see the world.”

Narcissa contemplated her sister’s words for a moment. “Why does she not believe in happily-ever-after? She has a soulmate, I have seen her mark.”

Andy walked around the chair and Narcissa could finally see her face. Andy looked pained. “She does. She does have a mark. But have you ever wondered why Bella’s mark is silver, while yours and mine are golden?” Narcissa shook her head. That was one question that had not crossed her mind. “Silver,” Andy continued, “is the color of a love unrequited.”

“Oh,” Narcissa said quietly.

“You see now, don’t you?” Andy smiled sadly and Narcissa nodded.

“I do.” She pulled on the gloves. “We should go. We mustn’t be late.”

Andy laughed. “Oh, Cissy,” she touched her shoulder. “You are mother’s favorite for good reason after all.” But there was something absolutely heartbroken in her eyes that Narcissa did not understand. Maybe it had something to do with her soulmate or Bella’s, she thought, and so she did not ask, because Narcissa was ten and soulmarks had become even more of a taboo in the house.

* * *

Narcissa was eleven and Hogwarts almost made her forget about soulmarks. It was grand. All towers and marble staircases and high, vaulted ceilings. It was not like home, even though there were marble staircases and high, vaulted ceilings there too. Hogwarts was more rustic somehow with its raw stone walls and torches instead of chandeliers, but Narcissa thought it was charming. When she heard Leticia Bullstrode comment on how unsophisticated it was she decided to love Hogwarts even more fiercely. She also decided to stick to Serenity Allard, the only girl who did not nod in agreement to Leticia’s words. Serenity was wonderful, she had the slightest accent, because she was French, and mother had been furious with her for associating with the girl, but Narcissa hadn’t cared. Because this was Hogwarts and apparently things were a little different here. Especially the one thing that made Narcissa not forget about soulmarks after all.

Andy did not wear stockings. Or socks. Or tights. Or anything that would cover her soulmark.

Leticia was appropriately scandalized of course, and if she was honest with herself, Narcissa was, too. It went against everything she had ever known to see such an intensely private thing so prominently displayed. Andy did not seem to care, though. Andy was generally completely different from how she was at home. She laughed more for one. And she did not hold anything back. It made her wonder if she had ever known her sister at all.

“What’s wrong, Narcissa?” Serenity sat next to her on her bed and Narcissa smoothed out the covers as she contemplated her reply.

“Why are you not as bothered by seeing another person’s soulmark?” she asked and her hand almost reached for her own mark. Serenity laughed.

“Perhaps because my parents are far less…” she searched for the right word for a moment, but did not seem to find it, because she moved on. “I’ve seen their marks, I’ve seen my brother’s and they’ve all seen mine. When it’s just us at home no one really bothers to hide it. I mean… I don’t think any of them would put it on display quite as much as your sister, but my point is, I’ve seen soulmarks before. I don’t quite understand why they need to be hidden, actually.”

Narcissa ignored the little voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like mother that ranted about how Serenity was _French, and of course the French believe such nonsense._ She nodded slowly. “She never does that at home,” she said quietly.

Serenity seemed thoughtful for a moment, but then she shrugged and took Narcissa’s hand. She pulled her off the bed and towards the door. “I met this portrait. He says his name is Black and he was headmaster. You simply must tell me if all the things he says are true. Maybe the two of you are related?”

That was how Narcissa met Phineas Nigellus. He was fascinating, if a bit old-fashioned and occasionally rather brutal, and Narcissa could spend endless hours talking to him and all the other portraits he introduced them to. Narcissa was eleven and Hogwarts almost made her forget about soulmarks.

* * *

Narcissa was twelve and her soulmark stopped growing. Of course, it did not stop growing the moment she turned twelve. It stopped growing when Andy left. Left because she found her soulmate. Andy packed up her bags and vanished in the middle of the night, she did not even say goodbye. And it hurt. It hurt more than Narcissa had ever hurt before. And all because of a stupid dolphin on Andy’s calf. All because of a soulmark.

Her own soulmark covered half of her ribcage nowadays, but Narcissa did her best to avoid looking at it. Gone were the times when she would spend hours upon hours trying to commit all of it to memory. Gone were the times when she was excited about every new leaf, every tiny vine, every flower bud. These days, she lifted her head high and straightened her spine and went through her day without wondering about the hint of a bronze flower she could see above mother’s collar or the black stars on father’s ear. Narcissa was a Black and she would not show how hurt she was by this.

So when mother made her accompany her to tea with Calanthia Gamp, Isadora Malfoy, Annette Burke and a host of other ladies, Narcissa steeled herself and put on her most beatific smile. A few of the other women had brought their daughters as well, but all of them were older than she was. Corona Gamp and Regina Zabini were closest to her in age, but even they were fourteen to her twelve years, so Narcissa was not surprised when she went mostly ignored. She spotted Andy’s friend Cordelia across the room at a different table, but neither of them made a move to seek the other out. Instead, Narcissa stuck to mother’s side as Lady Gamp introduced them to a woman called Marcia King, who apparently had moved to Great Britain from the States recently with her husband and a son the same age as “Heidi’s lovely Allegra”. Narcissa spotted a soulmark on the woman’s collarbone and lowered her eyes to the floor almost immediately. She could already hear the whispers as Lady Flint complimented Mrs King’s dress. A soulmark on display, even if it was just the tiniest bit. It was sure to be gossip for a while. Not as long as Andy though.

And indeed just as the wave of whispers died down old Eglantine Crabbe leaned across the table. “Narcissa, darling, how is your sister?” Eglantine studied her intently as she waited for her reply, and Narcissa could feel mother’s eyes on her as well, but her smile never wavered.

“Bella was doing quite well, last I heard. I had hoped to see her here, but alas, I know she is awfully busy,” she replied evenly and mother relaxed ever so slightly beside her. Too early.

“What about your other sister?” Eglantine was clearly trying to provoke a reaction, the old beast, but Narcissa would not let her win. She was a Black and she was stronger than this.

“I’m afraid I do not know who you are referring to, Mrs Crabbe,” she said slowly but certainly and it hurt to eradicate Andy from her life like this, but she could not show weakness.

“Really? I had heard she had gotten married to a man with that simply magnificent bear she conjured last summer all over his chest.” Eglantine leaned back slightly, clearly having delivered her piece, and Narcissa almost flinched, because she did not know that.

“I suppose that is lucky for them,” Narcissa replied, her voice thankfully steady, “but I truly only have one sister and The Lady Bellatrix has been married for nigh on two years now.” She could tell mother was swelling with pride next to her and several of the ladies in the room were looking at her approvingly, but Narcissa just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from the world. Than night, she allowed herself a glimpse of her soulmark. She had chosen a side now. The side that disregarded soulmates. She lifted her chin and looked at herself in the mirror. Soulmarks and soulmates and true love are foolish notions, she told herself. Narcissa was twelve and her soulmark stopped growing.

* * *

Narcissa was thirteen and she still had not grown used to the sight of other people’s soulmarks. Even the little glimpses when a carefully placed wristband slipped or a trouser leg rode up made her avert her eyes. So when Sirius, drenched from his misadventure in water spells, took off his shirt and bared his soulmark to her without a care in the world, Narcissa was caught off guard for a moment. And for the duration of that moment, she stared. Then, she reigned herself in, directed her eyes to the ground and willed herself not too blush. She had seen it, though. She had seen the beauty that was the proud cougar in a sea of stars on the right side of Sirius’ torso. And she could not unsee it. Like every other soulmark she had ever laid eyes on it was instantly seared into her memory. She wondered for a second if that was just the thing with soulmarks or if it was something that only happened to her. Then, she reminded herself that she did not care. Her fierce dislike of anything related to soulmates had ebbed and left behind indifference. Sometimes her curiosity returned, though.

Sirius laughed loudly and Narcissa looked up. “Is this what it takes to get all your masks to crumble then, Cissy?” He was still without a shirt and his golden mark seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“I do not know what you mean,” Narcissa raised her chin slightly and met eyes that were so much like her own.

Sirius just threw his head back and laughed even louder. He did not seem to care that his soulmark was still exposed for all the world to see, but then he had always been bold. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said finally, before he walked away.

Regulus stayed and studied her and Narcissa felt as exposed as Sirius’ mark, because where his older brother had always been bold, Regulus had always been perceptive. “Why are you afraid, cousin?”

“I am not,” she said. “I have simply grown up. This is not a fairytale world, Reg.”

“It is not,” he agreed quietly, sounding far, far too old. “But you are very much afraid.” And with that he followed his brother. She watched him go, until the star on the back of his neck caught the light and reflected it her way. She averted her eyes. Narcissa was thirteen and she still had not grown used to the sight of other people’s soulmarks.

* * *

Narcissa was fourteen and she wondered what her soulmate carried on their skin. It was a lapse of her good judgement, a momentary pause in her indifference. And once again it was brought about by seeing her cousin’s mark. This time it was Regulus’ mark and it was only a brief glimpse, but Narcissa had seen enough to identify a lioness that seemed to be set in the night sky because she was surrounded by so many stars. It was beautiful. That was the one thing all soulmarks had in common as far as Narcissa could tell. They were beautiful. Of course, Aunt Walburga did not seem to think Regulus’ soulmark was anything but a disgrace. Sirius on the other hand seemed to be determined to be twice as proud as Aunt Walburga was furious. Tension was running high in Grimmauld Place and they had not even headed to Ebony Hall for dinner yet. These so called family dinners were something Lady Melania insisted on every once in a while, despite the fact that they invariably ended in disaster. At least today the extended family was not invited.

Sirius rushed out of his brother’s room and across the hallway to his own, his shirt only half-buttoned and Narcissa took a step back and leaned against the wall. Father was with Uncle Orion in his study and she could hear mother and Aunt Walburga talking a floor or two below them. Regulus turned and caught her still looking at him. He seemed incredibly uncomfortable.

“You saw, did you not?” he asked.

Narcissa inclined her head and tried to figure out how he felt. But Regulus’ masks were as firmly in place as her own despite the fact that Sirius had disappeared into his room, the door shut behind him, and it was only the two of them here. “I did,” she replied evenly.

His lips curled into a smirk that revealed the barest hint of his feelings. Upset in the corner of his mouth, defensiveness in the press of his lips, fear in the way he opened his mouth just briefly and just a little bit, before he closed it again without speaking.

He was only eleven and Narcissa found herself wanting to reassure him. She had been raised by Andy as much as she had been raised by her parents after all. Maybe more so. She clamped down on that thought viciously and shoved it back into the Andy shaped hole in her heart, where it belonged and where it would not be looked at, before she stepped into Regulus’ room through the still open door and fixed the collar of his shirt. “It is beautiful,” she told him. Her voice was quiet, because speaking so openly of soulmarks was a thing not done in this family, but she could feel him relax slightly and that was enough for her. “You should finish getting dressed now,” she added more loudly.

Then, she left the room and closed the door behind herself. She stared at the wood paneling on the wall and wondered if her soulmate was also marked with a lioness. She discarded that thought as soon as it crossed her mind. She was no lioness, though a regular cat might suit her well. Or perhaps a fox or some kind of bird. For a moment, she got caught up in imagining a part of herself on another’s skin, before she reminded herself that love and soulmates and soulmarks were foolish notions. She fixed her hair and made herself smile as she went to join mother and Aunt Walburga. But it was still there, in the back of her mind. Narcissa was fourteen and she wondered what her soulmate carried on their skin.

* * *

Narcissa was fifteen and her soulmark was growing again. She discovered it on October 1st, the day after her birthday, during her evening ritual. One of the flower buds that had been sealed shut since Andy left was opening. It was barely visible, but Narcissa, who (despite her best efforts) knew every inch of her soulmark by heart, noticed. For a moment she wondered why it was growing now, because nothing significant had happened. But then she pushed it aside. _It does not matter_ , she told herself. Of course, as she was about to discover, time would prove her wrong.

The next day after Arithmancy, someone approached her. She was still bent over her desk, adding a few last minute notes, so the first thing she saw were his hands. Long, slender hands, the kind that were meant to play violin or piano. He was tall, she noted when she looked up, reasonably broad in the shoulders and rather on the handsome side. And he was smiling at her, half-apologetic, a little self-depreciating and faintly amused. She found that she liked his smile. She also found that, while she knew he was a Ravenclaw in her year, his name eluded her.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said and his voice was soft but somehow rough.

“Apologize?” she looked at him and allowed herself a small half-smile. “I wasn’t aware anyone had done anything that warranted an apology.”

He chuckled. “My friend Dorcas,” he nodded to a girl a little ways behind him, “quite literally ran into you yesterday. And since she isn’t feeling particularly apologetic, I thought I’d apologize in her stead.” Narcissa remembered both the incident and the two of them, the girl as a flurry of dark hair and clicking heels and him with a kind smile and about half of her books in his hands, but she hadn’t expected an apology.

She took a moment to study Dorcas, now that she was standing still. She was tall, and not just because she was wearing high heels and Narcissa thought that some people would kill to have legs like that; they were clad in slacks instead of the regulation skirt. Her features were sharp and quite obviously Asian. Dorcas wasn’t pretty, because pretty implied a certain softness that she lacked, but she was striking with her strong cheekbones, the straight nose and lips painted an astonishing shade of red. Her best feature, though, were her eyes, there was no denying that. Dark-brown and almond-shaped they scrutinized Narcissa unashamedly and she could almost feel how the incredible mind behind them took her apart bit by bit and found every single flaw and imperfection. She returned her attention to Dorcas’ friend, whose name still evaded her grasp. “That is kind of you,” she said.

He shrugged. “Someone needs to make sure Dorcas doesn’t antagonize too many important people.”

She wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a joke, so she just gave him a half-smile. And normally, that would have been that. But for once, her mouth got ahead of her brain and she spoke without quite meaning to. “Am I an important person then?”

It drew a laugh out of him and Narcissa was startled by how much she liked it. She could not help but smile. A true smile. Her true smiles had become almost as rare as Bella’s. “How about you tell me that?” he asked.

She considered the question much more seriously than she had originally intended it to be, much more earnestly than he had probably intended it as well. “I don’t think I am,” she replied finally and the light mood was instantly gone.

He picked up her quill and looked at it for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. Then, he said, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

And with those words he left, quill still in hand. Dorcas fell into step beside him and Narcissa watched them go. His name came back to her then. Dalton McKinnon.

Narcissa rose and put the entire encounter out of her mind, but over the next weeks and months as Dalton McKinnon became a permanent fixture in her life, she found herself forgetting that she didn’t care about soulmarks anymore. Instead she fell in love with her own mark all over again. And as the eagle spread its wings and grew in size, she also fell in love with Dalton McKinnon. Narcissa was fifteen and her soulmark was growing again.

* * *

Narcissa was still fifteen and her heart was breaking even if her soulmark shone brighter than ever. She stared into the cup of tea in her hands forlornly and wondered bleakly why some people believed tea made everything better when it clearly did not.

“I’m sorry, Cissy. Really, I am.”

She looked up from her cup to find Andy looking back at her. Her sister seemed honestly pained, but then, Narcissa supposed that she had known she would be. She must have. She came here after all. She came here after she had raged at her parents for hours and hours. She came here when she didn’t know where else to go, with mother’s handprint still red on her cheek and her heart shattering into a million tiny pieces. She sought Andy’s arms, because in Andy’s arms she could be safe. But nothing and no one could protect her from a breaking heart.

“It’s not your fault,” Narcissa tried to be reassuring, but her voice failed her half-way through the sentence.

“I am still sorry, Cissy love.” Her sister set her own cup of tea down on the quaint little table between them. Everything about the house was quaint, in a nice, very-Andy way. And everything about the house screamed home. It was well lived-in and well-loved and Narcissa could see why. It might have been messy and a little scruffy in places, but it was cozy and it was nothing like their parent’s house.

Their parents. The parents that might not have been openly opposed to her marrying Dalton, but certainly didn’t mind his parents’ refusal of a marriage contract. After all, it left them free to pursue the other options, the proper options. Narcissa was sure that mother’s tea dates with Danielle Greengrass, Isadora Malfoy, Patricia Avery and Merlin knew who else were more than simply social calls.

“I hate that their reasoning makes so much sense,” she whispered.

“Whose?” Andy raised an eyebrow. Her eyebrows still looked like they used to.

“His parents’,” Narcissa put her cup on the table and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “They want what’s best for him. And we _are_ young and… it’s not like anyone can know for sure.”

“Now that’s rubbish,” Andy interrupted, “Patroni…”

But Narcissa cut her off. “I can’t conjure a patronus, Andy. And neither can he. And mother and father aren’t willing to wait until we can.” She paused and pulled Andy’s garish robe more tightly around herself. “Right now I don’t think I could even if I had done it before.”

Andy’s eyebrows drew together in a frown and for a moment she looked at Narcissa concernedly. Then, she got up and started to pace around the kitchen angrily.

“They’re crazy!” She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re in love with someone that they could _accept_ and still they refuse to… to wait or come up with a preliminary agreement or… or something!”

“You know mother doesn’t care about love or soulmarks,” Narcissa said quietly.

“But she does care about reputation. My running away can’t have been good for hers or father’s. And if you ran as well… I mean, telling you no here is practically provoking it. You’re not like Bella. Your mark is golden!” Andy ran a hand through her hair.

“I may not be like Bella, but I’m not like you either Andy,” Narcissa pointed out. “I’m not as brave. And even if I were… they would make sure I couldn’t… I won’t even have a chance to run before I’m sold off to whoever pays best.”

“That’s barbaric!” Andy exclaimed and with her hair all messed up and her temper flaring, she looked even more like Bella than she usually did. “They’re selling you like cattle!”

Narcissa looked at her sister, so furious on her behalf, and thought that maybe, with Dalton and Andy by her side, she could be as brave, as foolish. As in love.

A small hand patted her knee and drew her from her thoughts. Andy was still pacing up and down, up and down, but in front of her stood a tiny girl with eyes like molten silver and hair a sleepy powder blue. The girl reached out and Narcissa surprised herself by understanding what she wanted. She picked her up and as the girl got comfortable in her lap, she spotted a wolf on her thigh. The stars that were so typical for the Black family spiralled around the girl’s leg like a galaxy.

The sting of tears had become incredibly familiar to Narcissa, who never used to cry, and she could feel them burn behind her eyes at the sight of the mark. She had never before seen a person’s complete soulmark upon first meeting them. Of course, the girl was too young to care who saw her mark, but to Narcissa it was one more thing that set Andy’s home apart from their parent’s house. Here, soulmarks were not something to be hidden away, they were something to be cherished, something to be celebrated. She knew that to mother, the things they carried on their skin were nothing but a blemish and while Narcissa loved her mark, she still hid it from the world. A result of mother’s teachings, no doubt. This girl, though, was being taught to wear her soulmark with pride, she was sure of it. She wished she could, wished she would wear her own like that. She blinked furiously and tore her eyes away from the golden lines on the girl’s skin. When she looked up, she found Andy studying her closely.

“That’s Dora,” her sister told her. “Nymphadora, technically, but Dora for short.”

“She’s… she’s wonderful,” Narcissa smiled softly, even though she could still feel the tears burn behind her eyes. “Is she… a metamorph?” she asked with a glance at the girl’s hair.

Andy nodded, “The only thing about her that never changes is her mark.”

Narcissa brushed a strand of hair out of her niece’s face gently. Dora grabbed a fistful of her aunt’s clothes and pulled. Robe and blouse slipped off Narcissa’s shoulder.

“Dora, stop that,” Andy reached out and gently made her daughter let go. Then, she froze. “Merlin, Cissy,” she whispered. “You didn’t tell me it was… you didn’t tell me it was that bright.” Narcissa just bit her lip as Andy continued. “Who needs patroni? Your mark is practically screaming it out for all the world to hear!”

The younger sister glanced at her shoulder where a single flowering vine was exposed. Narcissa was still fifteen and her heart was breaking even if her soulmark shone brighter than ever.

* * *

Narcissa was sixteen and her soulmark darkened. It was not bronze like mother’s, but it was not as vividly golden as it used to be either. And she knew why, she knew it very well. And it was all she could do not to storm out of the room as she stared at Lucius Malfoy’s face across the table.

Lucius Malfoy was tall. His nose was straight and somewhat pointy and he had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He wore his hair long and unbound and Narcissa was glad for her own braid because it set her apart from him. He was broad in the shoulders, but not quite as broad as Dalton, and she supposed that objectively speaking, he was handsome. Narcissa could not care less. His eyes were greedy and he looked at her as if he were already claiming his prize. She met his gaze with a fake smile and cold eyes. This was not a man she could love, she was sure of it. She was also sure that it did not matter. No one cared if she could love him or not. No one cared if she wanted to marry him. No one cared that she was certain he was not her soulmate. So Narcissa did what she did best. She smiled. She smiled and pretended her heart was not breaking all over again, because this… this was the end of all her hopes.

She was betrothed now and she would not get out of this. There would be no agreement with Dalton’s parents, not now. She did not know if she had still believed there would be, but she had hoped... it did not matter, though. She would marry Lucius Malfoy and mother would not let her run away from this marriage like Andy ran away from the prospect of marrying Amycus Carrow with his beady little eyes and his disgusting smile. Lucius Malfoy’s smile was disgusting, too, Narcissa decided when he smiled at her. It was probably supposed to be a nice smile, but all she could see was that he was incredibly full of himself. _Smiles_ , she thought, _are supposed to soften a face, supposed to light it up_. Even the most forgettable face could be beautiful with a smile on it. Lucius Malfoy’s face was neither soft nor beautiful and the only thing that lit it, were the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.

She looked away from him and discovered that mother was watching her like a hawk. She was barely paying attention to the conversation around her; she was so distracted that grandmother kept sending disapproving looks her way. Narcissa could not help but triumph silently, because she should have been the one losing her composure, not mother, but there they were.

“Narcissa, darling,” said a voice next to her and she turned to the speaker. Lucretia Prewett was Lord Arcturus’ favorite child and _her_ smile was a thing of true beauty. “I would like you to meet my cousin Elaine.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Narcissa,” Elaine’s fair hair fell forward as she leaned around Lucretia. She was gorgeous. And her entire presence there was a demonstration of power.

“The pleasure is mine, Milady,” Narcissa bowed her head. Elaine may have been Lucretia’s cousin, but she was also the wife of Mason Prewett, elder brother to Lucretia’s husband Ignatius and since his father’s death a few years prior the Lord of his house. Lord Arcturus had made it a point to invite a host of relatives from older families and with higher social rank than the Malfoys and Elaine Prewett and her husband were at the top of that list.

“None of that now,” Elaine said cheerfully. “You must tell me, dear, is it true that a Ravenclaw in your year group conjured a patronus already?”

Narcissa’s first thought was of Dalton, but she knew that it was not him. Besides, she had heard both the rumors and a more detailed account from Dalton. He had been present after all, even if he had not conjured the patronus. “It is true, Lady Elaine,” she replied quietly. “Or at least it is from what I have heard. I have not seen it for myself, I fear.”

Elaine gasped excitedly, but there was a calculating glint in her eyes. “Astonishing. I’m afraid I did not want to believe my son when he told me of it,” she tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured nail and smiled apologetically even though her son was not here. None of her children were and Narcissa could not help but think that they, unlike their mother, would be quite out of place at Ebony Hall.

“And do you know the name of the person?” Lucretia chimed in. Elaine turned to her curiously.

Narcissa nodded. “Her name is Dorcas Meadowes. A half-blood.”

“And the patronus? Was it corporeal?” Elaine inquired.

Narcissa nodded again, more slowly this time. “I believe so. Though, the rumors are not in agreement on what form it took. Many say it is a large predator of some sort.”

“I heard,” Lucius Malfoy leaned across the table and Narcissa raised her chin and refused to look at him, “that it is a tiger.”

“A tiger,” Elaine repeated contemplatively. “Majestic animals, are they not?”

“It can’t have been very grand,” Lucius Malfoy said, “Personally, I don’t believe it was any more than mist. Meadowes is still no more than a half-blood.”

“And one who is rather on the wrong path,” Bella added from her place beside her husband. “She is of the sort that need to be taught their place.”

Narcissa stared for just a moment before she reined herself in and put her smile back on. Bella scared her these days. But when she looked around, the only one who looked vaguely uncomfortable was Elaine.

Later, when dinner was done and they retired to the salon, Elaine sought her out. “I would walk with your daughter, Druella, if she is not needed here.” And mother nodded in acquiescence, because what other choice did she have when the Lady Prewett requested her daughter’s presence.

They headed for one of the courtyards together and Narcissa was surprised that Elaine knew the way so well. “I used to love it here as a child,” the older woman said as they walked. “I grew up in Rosevale. Rosevale Park, to be exact. And to be honest with you, that house is just plain boring compared to Ebony Hall.” Elaine laughed. “It’s full of clear lines and well-lit rooms and there is not a single hidden door or secret passageway. As a curious little girl my favorite pastime was dragging poor Lucretia around to explore.”

Elaine glanced her way and Narcissa smiled, but she didn’t quite know what to say. It sounded like just the thing Andy and Bella would do when she was still too young to follow after them properly, the kind of thing Sirius would drag Regulus along on when she was too aware of what was proper to do more than stare after them.

“This,” Elaine continued as they stepped into one of the courtyards, “this was my favorite place. Did you know that there is a secret passage behind that statue,” she pointed to a large griffin that stood guard beside another entrance to the courtyard, “that leads to the wine cellar?”

“I did not, Milady,” Narcissa shook her head slightly.

Elaine sighed deeply. “There really is no need to call me that, Narcissa. I took you here to give you a break. And to give myself a break, too, I suppose.”

Narcissa looked at her questioningly. “A break?”

“Your masks are good, child, but they slipped once or twice,” Elaine said. “You are uncomfortable in the presence of your sister, resentful of that Malfoy boy and fiercely unmoved in the face of your mother.” The woman turned her gaze to Narcissa and she felt like Elaine could see straight past every single one of her carefully crafted facades. “You are not happily betrothed.”

There was no use in denying it. The look on Elaine’s face made it clear that she was sure of her assessment. “No,” she replied quietly. “No, I am not. But I will bear it, because for me there is no choice.”

“I was wildly in love when I got married,” Elaine told her as she sat on the edge of a fountain and studied her hands. “I am wildly in love still. Thankfully for my heart, I was and am wildly in love with Mason Prewett. I bear his mark and I do so proudly. My daughter bears the mark of one of your disowned cousins and she is wildly in love as well. A proud mother of two by now.” She paused and Narcissa studied her small, loving smile. It was far more beautiful than Lucretia’s, she found, even if it was not as radiant. “My sons have not yet found the ones that are destined to hold their hearts until the end of time.” Elaine looked up then. “You on the other hand…” The pause between them was pregnant. Narcissa was too caught off guard to try and figure out how she had given herself away and the older woman radiated so much calm that she could not find it in herself to worry. “I can see it in your eyes,” Elaine said. “And for what it’s worth, child, I am sorry.”

The younger tried to find her usual arguments, the things she told herself when she had no more tears to shed. How was one supposed to know for sure? They were young still, they might yet fall in love with other people. But none of that crossed her lips because her voice had deserted her. And her hand raised itself to her side, where the eagle rested, without conscious thought as she thought of how its glow had dimmed. Narcissa was sixteen and her soulmark darkened.

* * *

Narcissa was seventeen and she realized that maybe not all soulmarks brought pain. Before her stood a girl of about fourteen, with long dark hair, a little messy from the time spent in the stands for the Quidditch match that had just ended, and vividly blue eyes. She was pretty, in an unassuming way, and so pale that her skin looked like porcelain. Her name was Mary MacDonald, she was Regulus’ partner on Slughorn’s fourth year potions’ project, and she looked worried. Narcissa understood that very well, the hit Regulus had taken was nasty. Sirius had turned white as a sheet and appeared ready to strangle the Pettigrew boy, even though he had left them, left them like Andy left them and it was only Cissy and Reg these days. Narcissa clenched her jaw and studied the girl some more to distract herself from her thoughts. _Mary MacDonald_ , she thought as she watched her play with the hem of her blouse nervously _, you could be something_.

“Look at me,” she said and Mary complied without a word. She was chewing on her lip and Narcissa just barely stopped her sigh. This was a girl that had never learned to hide her emotions. “Stop that.” Mary hastily stopped worrying her lip. “You want something.” Narcissa was quite certain of her assessment. For a moment, she thought of Elaine. Then, she focused on Mary again.

The younger girl nodded. “I want to see him,” she said. “Help me get in.”

Narcissa allowed herself a smile. “In where?” she asked.

“The dungeons,” Mary replied firmly. Narcissa looked at her. She was still playing with the hem of her blouse nervously, but her voice did not betray anything. Perhaps she was not hopeless at hiding her emotions after all.

Narcissa got up. “Do try to be a little bit forgettable,” she told her. “And stop that.” She reached out and pulled Mary’s hand away from her blouse. It rode up a little, no more than an inch or two, and Narcissa got a glimpse of a lion’s mane just for a moment. She breathed in sharply and looked up. Mary was staring at her wide-eyed, but unabashed. They held each other’s gaze for what felt like eternity. Finally, Narcissa turned away from the younger girl and looked at the pitch.

“Hold your head high, but look at no one,” she said. “Walk like you are supposed to be there, but do not smile at anyone. Do not meet anyone’s eyes.” Then, she surprised herself by offering her arm to Mary. And Mary surprised her by taking it. They left the stadium is silence. Neither of them spoke until they had crossed the entrance hall.

“Why?” asked Mary.

The smile that appeared on her face must have been sad, Narcissa was sure of it, but she could not seem to wipe it away. “Mary MacDonald,” her voice was measured and her words were carefully chosen, “I suggest you learn how to conjure a patronus and I suggest you do so fast.”

When Mary, instead of questioning her, simply nodded, Narcissa thought that given a bit of time, she truly could be something. And perhaps, their story could be a happy one. Narcissa was seventeen and she realized that maybe not all soulmarks brought pain.

* * *

Narcissa was eighteen and her soulmark should have been burning holes into her dress, because it felt like it was on fire. She stared at herself in the mirror, all in white, and it felt like forever ago that she and Andy had stood in front of a very similar mirror on the day that Bella was getting married. Perhaps it _was_ forever ago. Eight years were almost half of her life after all. Certainly more time than she had known Dalton even though it felt like it was the other way around. She felt the tears rise in her eyes and for a moment she was tempted to let them fall. Who cared what she looked like after all? But then mother stepped into the room and she raised her chin. She had some pride left still.

“Narcissa,” said mother.

“Mother,” she replied. And then they stared at each other silently for a long while.

“Bellatrix will stand witness for you.” Mother broke the silence and Narcissa frowned.

“I said Regulus,” she pointed out, her eyes narrowed.

“Regulus will also be there,” mother smoothed out her dress and Narcissa was surprised to see that she looked nervous all of the sudden. Nervous because of her. It was small triumph, but she needed everything she could get. “But, darling, you must understand, he is but 15.”

“He is the same age as I was when you sold me, mother,” she said. Mother opened her mouth to reply, but Narcissa stared her down.

“Lord Arcturus will be by shortly to accompany you,” mother’s voice was clipped and her movements were jerky when she turned to the door. Narcissa saw her glance back at her over her shoulder when her hand was already on the doorknob and for a moment, the older woman looked as if she wanted to apologize. But then the moment passed and mother left without another word.

She looked at herself in the mirror, in this last moment of privacy, and lifted the skirt of her dress. Her mark had grown rapidly in the last few years and it now extended to her knee. It was also blood red. Narcissa dropped the dress and squeezed her eyes shut, against the future more so than the pain. When she opened them again, she looked at the window. This was it. This was her last moment to flee, to get the hell out of here, to be brave. And right now, she could not remember all the reasons why she should not. But then, a knock sounded on the door and Lady Melania practically danced into the room, followed by Lord Arcturus, who looked a lot more grave than his wife.

“I remember the last time a Black married a Malfoy,” he groused and Narcissa felt a traitorous flicker of hope in her breast. Hope was something she could not allow herself.

And sure enough it was squashed a moment later, when Lady Melania waved her hand at her husband dismissively. “Ignore him, darling. He’s spouting superstitious nonsense again.” The dark look Lord Arcturus sent her way was ignored expertly. “Now, I have to get to my seat, but Elaine, you remember my niece Elaine, don’t you? Well, she sends her regards and she asks if you could perhaps set aside a moment to walk with her later today. I told her that of course you would.”

Narcissa nodded, but she could not find it in herself to smile. “It would be my pleasure to walk with Lady Elaine.”

“Good, good,” Lady Melania smiled. “I really must be going. My love, please refrain from telling her your horror stories on the way down, would you?” She left the room still glowing with excitement over this and that and Narcissa watched her go a bit resentfully.

The door fell shut behind Lady Melania and she was left alone with Lord Arcturus. They stood together in awkward silence, because he apparently had nothing to tell her apart from what Lady Melania called his horror stories and she had never been comfortable around him and right now she had other things on her mind than making pleasant conversation.

When the time came to go, he offered her his arm in stoic silence and with a displeased tilt to the corners of his mouth. At least, she consoled herself, she was not the only one unhappy with this. But no matter how much she hated this and no matter how much he disapproved, it did not change the fact that he was leading her to the altar. It did not change the fact that she was to be married soon. It was not the way she imagined her wedding. It could not be, because she was marrying Lucius Malfoy. Because she was not marrying Dalton. And then the thing that she had spent all day trying to avoid happened and she was suddenly drowning in memories of Dalton. She almost stumbled from the renewed pain, both emotional and physical, but Lord Arcturus steadied her. The ballroom doors opened. There was no turning back now. Narcissa was eighteen and her soulmark should have been burning holes in her dress, because it felt like it was on fire.

* * *

Narcissa was nineteen and she just wanted to cry as she stared at her soulmark. It was not bronze for once, instead it had the characteristic pearly-white color of a patronus, but that just made it worse. She stared at the lines of the silvery being in front of her, stared at its large wings that were only just unfurling, stared at the rustling feathers, stared at the curve of its beak. Stared at the eagle. Because it was not just any eagle. This one she would have recognized anywhere. This one was the one she was marked with.

Her entire body started to shake and a violent sob forced its way out of her throat. The sounds of Diagon Alley, the panicked screams, the crashes, the rattling breathing of the Dementors, became a dull roar in her ears as the colors began to blur before her eyes. She couldn’t hear, she couldn’t see. And she couldn’t feel her hands anymore, couldn’t feel her feet anymore, couldn’t feel anything anymore except the soulmark, the eagle that burned against her ribs. Dimly she registered how her own patronus surged back toward her, but then her wand fell out of her limp hand and it flickered out of existence.

Suddenly there were arms around her waist, pulling her into a shadowy corner and she should have been struggling, should have been getting the hell out of there, but she could not make herself care. It burned too fiercely for that. And then two hands cupped her face, rested on her shoulders briefly and touched her sides. She drew in a breath sharply, but the renewed pain she had expected upon someone touching her soulmark didn’t come. Instead, the burning sensation receded, became closer to the ache she lived with every day, and slowly, her senses returned to her. She heared a voice, forcibly calm, but panicked underneath the surface. “Cissa. Cissa, I need you to come back to me. Can you hear me?”

Despite the fact that she could tell he was panicking his voice soothed her. She opened her eyes. He stood before her, his hair stuck to his forehead, there was a sluggishly bleeding cut on his temple and dirt on his shirt, the sleeve of his robe was torn. In short, he was a mess. And she had never seen anything more beautiful. Because he was alive and that was enough for her. It had to be enough for her.

“What was that?” he asked quietly. Her eyes flickered to his patronus that stood guard at the entrance to the small alleyway they were in. This was dangerous, she realized. Not just because there were Dementors out there and death eaters all over the place, but because someone might see. If Lucius found out that they spoke, one of them would not see the light of day again.

“Backlash,” she whispered, patting her pockets for her wand so that she could cast a concealment charm or perhaps a Confundus to make people look past them.

“Backlash,” he repeated quietly.

She nodded. “Have you seen my wand?” He handed it to her wordlessly and she sighed in relief when she felt the cool wood against her palm.

“Cissa, that kind of backlash is unheard of,” he told her. “Short pains, a dull ache, momentary disorientation but not… not _that._ ” And suddenly she could see how scared he actually was, how terrified he must have been to see her basically catatonic all of the sudden. She should have realized sooner than that, Narcissa scolded herself. She lifted a hand to his face and mercilessly pushed away her own fears.

“It’s also unheard of to betray a fully formed and acknowledged bond,” she said softly, brushing her thumb over his cheek.

He just stared at her silently for a few long moments. Then, he said, “That makes no sense, Cissa. Why now?”

Her eyes flickered to his patronus again. “Because I’m good at lying to myself,” she whispered, so quietly that she wasn’t sure he could actually hear her. “We should go.” They both knew they would have to separate once they left this alley.

“You are not going out there without a patronus to protect you,” he said firmly and she looked up at him.

“I’ll conjure it once we’re outside.”

He shook his head. “I need to know you’ll be safe.” She closed her eyes. She had wanted to spare him this, spare both of them this. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that his jaw was set. He would not let her leave if she did not conjure a patronus. And the longer they stayed there, the more dangerous it became.

“I’m sorry,” she told him quietly. “So sorry.” She lifted her wand and looked at him, standing before her dirty and tired and a little bloody but _alive_. She thought of the relief of knowing he was safe, the joy of seeing him even battered as he was now and pushed all other emotions aside. “ _Expecto Patronum,_ ” she whispered. The swan didn’t burst out of her wand like it usually did. It came slowly almost as if it could sense her hesitance. When it hovered fully formed in the air before her, Narcissa could not help herself. She averted her eyes. She saw his face for just a moment, his eyes wide with a realization, a certainty she had wanted to spare him. She turned her eyes to the ground.

“Cissa,” his voice was quiet and breaking and there was so much he conveyed in that one word that it was almost too much to bear.

“I love you,” she whispered, still looking at the ground. “I… I need to go now.” And then she turned and stumbled into the panicking crowds, her patronus at her heels. She ran away from the small alleyway, her vision blurry with tears.

She didn’t know why or how, but it was Sirius who got her out of Diagon Alley. He apparated both of them out and took a moment to fix her hair. “Tell Andy we’re even now,” he said, before he vanished with a small pop.

Narcissa stared at the space where he had been for a long time, before she managed to pull herself together. For a moment, she contemplated going to see Andy, but then she stopped herself. There was only so much her heart could take in a day. Instead, she returned to Malfoy Manor (not home, never home). She successfully avoided Isadora on her way to her rooms; Lucius and Abraxas were not there. She locked the doors tightly and then she allowed herself to look at her mark. It was still bronze, but it shone just a little more than it did yesterday. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Narcissa was nineteen and she just wanted to cry as she stared at her soulmark.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty and she found that she had been wrong and all soulmarks brought pain after all.

It happened while Mary was pouring tea. One moment, it was just another day, a brief respite from all the pureblood ladies, and the next Mary let out a sound that was somehow gasp and shriek and pained shout at the same time and the tea pot slipped from her hands and hit the table. It shattered. Tea spilled everywhere. It soaked the table cloth and burned Narcissa’s hands. Mary took a shuddering breath and before Narcissa had time to comprehend what was going on, the younger woman stumbled forward. She tripped over her own feet. Narcissa only barely managed to catch her before she fell into the mess of scalding tea and shards.

“Mary?” she asked quietly as she pulled her into her arms, away from the table. “Mary, what’s wrong?”

But Mary didn’t seem to hear her. She just rocked back and forth, back and forth and Narcissa wished Regulus were there or Barty or one of Mary’s Gryffindor friends, because she had never been good at this.

“Shhh,” Narcissa pushed Mary’s hair away from her face. “Calm down, Mary. Calm down.”

The only response she received was a terrifyingly heartbroken sob. There were no tears, but the sobs, great and dry and so, so terrifying, wracked Mary’s entire body and left her shaking. Narcissa was surprised to find that she was shaking, too. Nonetheless she kept whispering to Mary. It was all nonsense and platitudes, but she didn’t know what else to say.

She wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there when the flames in the fireplace turned green and Barty burst forth. He looked harried. His skin was unhealthily pale, his cheeks were gaunt, his eyes were haunted. Narcissa could tell that his hands were shaking when he ran them through his hair.

“Mary!” he shouted and Narcissa realized with a start that he hadn’t noticed them. “Where is Reg?” He cursed under his breath and finally took in the state of the room. Then, he spotted them. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “Mare?” Mary had gone still in her arms for the first time in what felt like forever and Narcissa wondered why, but she could not seem to piece together what was slowly unfolding before her.

“What about Regulus, Barty?” she heard herself ask and his eyes flickered to her.

“He… he wasn’t there. They’re… he’s not pleased,” Barty grimaced. “Why didn’t he come?” He was looking at Mary again. Mary, who suddenly tensed in her arms. It happened too fast for her to understand it, so Narcissa simply reacted. Mary screamed. A sound of unholy fury, of anguish so deep, Narcissa could not fathom its reason. Mary screamed and launched herself at Barty. And Narcissa held on to her. She held on to her and bore the anger silently. Mary scratched and clawed at her arms, but Narcissa did not dare let go for fear of what Mary would do if she did.

And then, finally, a choked little gasp escaped Mary’s mouth and all the tension left her body. They sank to the floor in a disordered heap of limbs and as Mary leaned against her and cried like she had never seen anyone cry before, Narcissa finally, finally understood. And instantly wished she hadn’t. Ignorance had been bliss.

She met Barty’s eyes over Mary’s head and saw it dawn on him the way it had dawned on her. He paled even further and stumbled a step back.

“No,” he whispered quietly. “No.”

Neither of them needed to see the mark on Mary’s hip to confirm this, but Narcissa could not stop herself from pushing aside the hem of the younger woman’s blouse. It was a morbid sort of curiosity, and she cursed herself for it. The mark stood out starkly against Mary’s porcelain skin, the black a harsh contrast to the paleness. It still glinted faintly golden, as if there were a spark of life still left in him. She could have sat here and watched him die, she thought fascinatedly, without knowing where he was or what had happened to him. And then she caught up with her own thoughts and dropped the blouse as if it were burning her. Horrified with herself, she hid her face against Mary’s hair. The younger woman was still shaking in her arms and her tears hadn’t subsided. Narcissa knew, because they fell onto her shoulder. She felt somehow disconnected from the situation, a little bit as if she were outside of her own body, an observer to the scene. There was Mary, her heart breaking, shattering. There was Barty, whom she could not see, but who must have been just as gut-wrenchingly sad. And then there was she, Mary in her arms and closer to tears than she would have liked to admit. Because Regulus was (had been?) family. And she was losing the only part of her family that hadn’t been lost to her yet in one way or another.

Narcissa lifted her head and found Barty watching. His eyes were shining with tears that rolled down his cheeks like rivers and when he looked her in the eye, something shifted and she no longer felt like an observer. She was right there and right then, with Mary and Barty and so much sadness, so much heartbreak that it hung in the air almost as if it were tangible. She cried then. Simple, silent tears. And she could not seem to stop. Narcissa was twenty and she found that she had been wrong and all soulmarks brought pain after all.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-one and she had never before been so happy. Her son lay in her arms, so tiny, so breakable. But he would be strong one day, she thought, because he was a Black. He had the stars to prove it, golden and all over his foot. She looked at his tiny hands wonderingly. Draco Regulus, she thought and then remembered how mother used to call her Narcissa Cassiopeia when she wanted to get through to her. Perhaps that was one point where she would follow her mother’s example. If she did, it would certainly be the only one.

A sound on the other end of the ward caught her attention. She had insisted upon staying at Saint Mungo’s instead of going straight back to Malfoy Manor. What if something went wrong? What if something happened? And that was part of the reason. She truly was worried. But another part of her hoped for… she wasn’t sure what she hoped for. A miracle, perhaps. A sudden decision, a reason to run, to take the two people she loved most and just… get out of here. She understood Mary all too well. If she had been in her situation, she would have been gone much sooner.

She looked up when she heard footsteps. There was a healer at the entrance to the ward. Tall. Reasonably broad in the shoulders. She averted her eyes as the healer’s steps echoed through the silent room. Hope was a horrible, terrifying, heart-breaking thing. “What kind of world is this, Draco?” she whispered. “What kind of world am I supposed to be raising you in?”

“Perhaps one that could change,” a voice said next to her and she felt her heart flutter in her chest. “Perhaps one that has potential, a future.” She looked up. Rather on the handsome side, she thought.

“Isn’t he…?” But she couldn’t finish her sentence, her voice suddenly thick with tears.

“He is,” he smiled down at her, at them, and Narcissa couldn’t help but think that this was what a newly-minted father should look like.

“I was hoping he would have curls,” she said. _Like you_ , hung in the air unsaid.

“He’s perfect just the way he is, Cissa,” he told her and then he reached out to touch Draco’s cheek lightly. “He’s perfect just the way he is,” he repeated in a whisper.

And his voice was so reverent, so full of love and it broke her heart. The first tear fell from her eye. The second followed quickly and after that they ran down her face, silent and unhindered. And then suddenly his hands were on her face, wiping away the tears. “Shh, shh, don’t cry. Why are you crying, love?”

“This…” she said and her voice was surprisingly steady. “This is perfect. This is what I want and… I can’t have that, _we_ can’t have that.” She squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“I know. I know,” she opened her eyes to find him looking at Draco. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. But I… I had to see you. Both of you.”

“I’m glad for it,” she told him. “You should see your son and Draco might not remember it, but he should meet his father.”

He nodded and she could see the same emotions in his eyes that she felt. Happiness. Some fear. Sadness, too. And pride. Narcissa was twenty-one and she had never before been so happy.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-two and she suffered through the anguish silently as her soulmark turned black. The physical pain came first. Sharp and unexpected, like someone stabbing her side. She faltered in her steps, stumbled a little, tripped over nothing and then straightened her back and hurried to her rooms. The door fell closed behind her and she leaned against it, she didn’t have to think about what was causing this pain. She knew what it felt like when her soulmark was hurting. Another bout of pain shot through her side and she fell to her knees. It had never been this bad before. Not when she had gotten married, not when she had known, truly known, that the mark on her side was Dalton’s. Dalton. Her breath hitched for a moment.

With the next bout of pain came certainty. Certainty that this could only mean one thing. Certainty that Dalton was dead. The sob tore through her despite her best efforts and she thought that it might as well tear her apart, tear her body in half like her heart was being torn. It hurt. But she couldn’t say for sure anymore where it hurt and what hurt only that it hurt. She clawed at her arms and if she had been thinking rationally, she would perhaps have remembered Mary, whose fingernails had inflicted very similar wounds upon her a little more than two years ago, but she wasn’t. Rational thought had left her. All thought had left her. Except his name. Dalton. Dalton, Dalton, Dalton. It was like a mantra, but she didn’t know its use.

Another wave of anguish washed over her and she fell sideways without meaning to and without a chance to stop herself from doing so. Perhaps also without a will to do so. The impact didn’t hurt. Or maybe she was simply incapable of feeling any more pain. She dimly registered that there were tears streaming down her face and that the floor was cold against her cheek, but it didn’t matter to her. Nothing quite mattered to her and if she had had the energy to be she would have been scared of that.

Narcissa lay on the floor in her rooms, curled up as much as she could and cried until the sun rose. She was shaking and her fingernails left angry red scratches on her arms, at some point she had bitten her lip so hard that it had started bleeding and she would never be sure how it happened but the sleeve of her flimsy gown was torn. And yet she hadn’t made a single sound. Narcissa was twenty-two and she suffered through the anguish silently as her soulmark turned black.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-three and she saw his soulmark for the last time. It was an open casket funeral and his shirt didn’t cover his collarbones. She could see the tips of a swan’s wings on them, forever golden on his skin. Someone had closed his eyes and cleaned his wounds. She could still see a cut on his cheekbone, but only because she was staring so hard. He looked almost peaceful and if it weren’t for the fact that he was lying in a coffin she could have convinced herself that he was simply asleep (except Dalton never slept on his back, he didn’t and this was _wrong_ ). Her nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists.

She had left Draco with Serenity. She couldn’t bear for him to be anywhere near Lucius while she attended Dalton’s funeral. No one paid her any mind. She stood in the back, veiled in black, just another grieving person in a sea of mourners and she felt far less out of place here than she did at Malfoy Manor. Whatever that said about her and her sham of a marriage.

Sirius stood at the front. She would have recognized him anywhere, just like she would have recognized Reg or Bella or Andy. They were her family, or they had been once. The people that were being laid to rest here today could have been her family, too. In a happier world. In a world that wasn’t so messed up. Perhaps this world could change, she thought, remembering Dalton’s words from the day that Draco was born. But she wasn’t sure if she wanted it without him. It scared her, terrified her even, that she was certain she wouldn’t be walking and talking and facing the world if it weren’t for her son. She was a Black and she was stronger than this, after all. Except she wasn’t. She really, truly wasn’t. A single tear ran down her cheek before she could stop it and she was surprised for a moment that she still had tears left to cry. The next moment, she was simply glad for her veil as one tear became two and then three and then more than she could possibly count.

She didn’t pay attention to the speakers, they came and went and blurred into one and maybe it had been just one after all, she wasn’t sure. Sirius didn’t speak, she knew that much. He just stood there, silent and unmoving. His friends surrounded him, Potter and Lupin on either side and then Pettigrew on Lupin’s other side. Lily Potter sobbed into her husband’s shoulder, but Sirius appeared distant from all of them, like he wasn’t quite connected to this world anymore.

She supposed it made a sad sort of sense. The Blacks were known for their predilection to madness, after all. Then, she wondered if she might be going mad, too. Bella certainly was. Even Andy had the raging fire of insanity buried inside of her. She had seen it occasionally. Regulus had always been the most grounded out of all of them. Or perhaps his madness had been of a different kind. Cold and silent and determined. Her own madness was different, too, she thought. It wasn’t the raging fire and passion that Sirius and her older sisters shared. It wasn’t determined and focused like Regulus’ was, either. But it was cold and silent. Cold and silent and directionless and it left her afloat in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. And there was nothing keeping her anchored to reality anymore. Her anchor was about to be buried, but the connection was broken.

Someone moved forward to close the coffin and Narcissa glanced at Dalton one last time before she turned around and left. She could not bear to watch him lowered into the ground. Narcissa was twenty-three and she saw his soulmark for the last time.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-four and she wanted her painful soulmark back, because these days she just felt numb. The only thing that brought her joy was her son. Draco was a delightful child at just two years of age, bright and curious and chubby-cheeked. There were days she didn’t let him out of her sight, afraid of who she became when she could not draw her happiness from his. Of course, there were places she could not take him to. Places like this one.

She sat in a small questioning room, her hands folded in her lap, and regarded the members of the committee before her. Lady Lucille Abbott had been taking the lead in questioning her and by the resigned look on Marius Weasley’s face it had been that way for a while. Lady Lucille was tall, with strawberry-blonde hair, an unremarkable face and a passive-aggressive attitude. Narcissa supposed she could understand where she was coming from, she had lost her daughter and her daughter’s family in the war after all. She had just been great-grandmother for the fourth time. Three of those children were dead now. She sat front and center in the group, flanked by Lord Greengrass and a woman named Louise Fairbourne. She didn’t know either of them, but Lord Greengrass’ eldest and Mrs Fairbourne’s youngest child were about her age if she was not mistaken. A little older than she, probably. Perhaps not as painfully numb. By Mrs Fairbourne’s side sat a woman named Aline Chapel. She was the youngest here, apart from Narcissa herself, twenty-six or maybe twenty-seven, and the only muggleborn. Her hair was a mousy color somewhere between blonde and brown and she bowed over her notes instead of meeting Narcissa’s eyes. In contrast, Marius Weasley was lounging in his chair. He was not exactly young anymore, his hair more white than red, but the family resemblance was obvious all the same. As was his distrust of her. It had been expected really. Edison Fudge next to him appeared much friendlier, but that was about all that she could say about him. He had been quiet more than anything. Standing tall behind all of them was Lord Arcturus, the most recent (and temporary) addition to the committee until Ava Pritchard returned from the hospital with news about her first grandchild. She would have to remember to send a card, Narcissa thought detachedly.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Lady Lucille said and Narcissa suppressed a scowl, “I will ask you again now and this time you had better reply.” Her eyes narrowed and Narcissa nodded demurely. They both knew who had the power here. “Was your husband a follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“He is marked, is he not?” she looked Lady Lucille in the eye as she replied. She could not quite keep the disgust out of her voice, Narcissa noted, but she considered it justified. The Dark Mark, as it was called, was an abomination. A pale imitation of the painful beauty of soulmarks.

Lady Lucille straightened. “And was he such willingly?”

Narcissa contemplated her answer for a moment. She could have told them then that she believed he had followed willingly, that she was sure in fact, even if he had never said so. But Lord Arcturus would have known and others would certainly have found out and then she would have lost both support and protection from the Malfoys at least. Perhaps the Blacks as well. And Draco needed protection. She could not put her son at risk like that. She looked up. “I cannot know for sure if he followed willingly,” she told them, “He never spoke of it to me. I suppose if he says he was bewitched then I must believe him for to be married to a man who bowed to another so readily and willingly, would be to be married to one that I could not respect.”

Lord Arcturus eyed her speculatively, he knew she had never respected Lucius, but he did not speak up.

“And do you respect your husband?” It was Louise Fairbourne, who leaned forward in her chair to study Narcissa intently.

“Shouldn’t every wife?” she asked back.

Marius Weasley lifted his head to glare at her. “Stop avoiding the question, girl.”

“I would like to,” she said stiffly, not looking at Weasley.

“You would like to what?” his fingers drummed on the armrest of his chair and Narcissa felt something stir in her chest. Mild annoyance, perhaps. Or impatience.

“I would like to have a husband I can respect,” she said slowly, “If I do… remains to be seen.”

“Remains to be seen,” Weasley spat out. “Your husband is a blemish on this earth! A death eater of the vilest sort! You may not care about that, woman, but I do! And the people in this room do! We’re here to see scum like him be brought to justice! Because we’ve lost people in this war, good people, people we held dear! But I guess you wouldn’t know the first thing about that…” his sneer was worthy of a Malfoy.

“I have lost people just like all of you have,” she said softly, as her annoyance morphed into something more.

“Oh yes, a few death eater cousins, how dreadful,” Weasley scoffed and he seemed ready to continue his tirade, but Lady Lucille threw him a look and he quieted down.

“Mrs Malfoy,” she said, “I fear I share Mr Weasley’s impression that you are being deliberately unhelpful.”

“That was not my intent,” Narcissa replied and Lady Lucille raised an eyebrow.

“Was it not?” she asked. “Perhaps you feel some misguided sense of family loyalty that makes you unwilling to speak of your husband’s misdeeds, but let me assure you that if the charges against him prove to be true then he doesn’t even deserve to be looked upon.” Lady Lucille plucked the quill out of Aline Chapel’s hand to stop her note-taking and Narcissa stared, suddenly reminded of Dalton. She wondered if he’d picked the habit up from his grandmother. “I have lost my daughter to these madmen. Melody was a wonderful, kind woman. She and Xavier should have gotten to see their grandchildren grow up! They should have seen their two youngest get married! They murdered a child, a toddler and an infant without a care when they attacked them! Men like that deserve to be thrown to the Dementors!”

Narcissa felt sick as she replied, “They do. They do, Lady Lucille. But I truly do not know if my husband was among them.” It was a blatant lie. This he had told her explicitly. She knew the details of Dalton’s death much more intimately than she would have liked to.

“Or perhaps you simply don’t care to share,” Lady Lucille glared at her. “You have no respect for the people that have lost so much compared to you.”

Narcissa surged from her chair and it was surprising even to her as she recognized the thing in her chest as rage. Icy and cruel. “Do not tell me what I have lost, Lady Abbott,” she hissed.

Lady Lucille laughed. An empty kind of laugh that Narcissa knew all too well. “Really? Is it so tragic? The loss of your half-crazed, murderous sister, who tortured respectable, upstanding purebloods to insanity? Or perhaps the loss of your cousin that murdered innocent bystanders and one that called him friend? Such poor misunderstood people, are they?”

Narcissa felt her lips curl into something ugly. “Don’t pretend your nephew wasn’t among those who murdered your daughter, Lady Abbott. Don’t pretend your own brother didn’t support his son over you, who you were grieving and in pain. Doesn’t it hurt that his grandson remains alive while three of yours lie dead? That they killed them all even though one of them never even fought in this war? A healer, who saved lives on all sides because war was pointless to him, a waste of life. And then his own life was declared worthless, he who had never passed such judgement over another.” She took a deep shuddering breath, not caring that she might have been revealing too much, not caring that she was being cruel to a grieving woman, not caring…

“Narcissa,” Lord Arcturus’ voice was sharp and it burst her little bubble of rage quite effectively. She stumbled backwards into her chair.

“I… I apologize,” she whispered. “That was uncalled for.” All her rage drained out of her and for a moment, she was horrified with herself. Then her numbness returned and buried all else beneath it. Narcissa was twenty-four and she wanted her painful soulmark back, because these days she just felt numb.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-five and she flinched internally every time someone compared Draco to Lucius. She liked to think she hid it quite well, but Serenity said her left eye twitched a little. Either way, she still took Draco along whenever she thought she could get away with it. Today, he had been… perhaps not explicitly invited, but it had been made clear that he would be welcome, so Narcissa balanced the four year old on her hip and flooed to Rosevale Park.

It was a gorgeous place. The floo room was decorated expensively, but tastefully and had three tall windows that let in the sunlight of a wonderful summer day and through which she could see a sprawling garden. Elaine was waiting in a dainty armchair and rose quickly when she saw them as if she were all of 16 instead of all of 60. “Narcissa, darling,” she smiled, “I’m so glad you could make it! And Draco, my, what a handsome boy you are.”

Draco preened a little, but he didn’t have the patience to remain on Narcissa’s hip for longer than it took them to floo, especially when there was a new place to explore. She put him back on his own feet and he looked around. “I’m afraid the house is quite boring, Draco,” Elaine laughed and kissed Narcissa’s cheeks lightly. “We should head outside. Mother is already there. And my sister Corinna! Do you know Corinna?”

“We’ve met, but only briefly,” Narcissa smiled. It was refreshing to be there, not as stifling as tea with anyone other than Mary and Serenity (and maybe Aunt Cassie) usually was. Of course, she hadn’t seen Mary in years.

“You’ll meet her properly then,” Elaine said decisively. “She’s brought her daughters; Sierra’s only been married for a month or so, but Cecilia’s here with her children. Mallory’s two now and Ferdinand is just over a year old. Oh, and of course Aletha is bringing Ernest, he’s Draco’s age, a few months older, I think.”

“I remember Aletha,” Narcissa told her when Elaine paused for a moment seemingly expecting a reply, “We shared a few classes at Hogwarts. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes if I remember correctly. Charms later on.”

Elaine smiled brightly at that. “Well, I’m afraid the others are all older than you are. Apart from Sierra, of course. My sister-in-law Deborah is coming too, and my nieces. Now, Henrietta doesn’t have children and I don’t think she will any time soon. That husband of hers is so focused on his career, you have no idea. And he has an older brother so it’s not like he has to worry about the family name. Either way, Dorothea’s bringing all four of hers. The oldest is ten now, and Dawson is… about three, I think.”

“This sounds rather like a Macmillan gathering to me, Elaine,” Narcissa said cautiously.

“Nonsense. You’re very welcome, darling,” Elaine linked their arms and headed for the door. “Come along now, Draco,” she called before she returned her attention to Narcissa. “You’ll feel right at home in a minute or two. Cousin Lucretia and Aunt Melania are coming too, if that helps.”

Narcissa smiled despite herself. “They are Macmillans in a way, though. Are they not?”

“No one really cares about that,” the older woman promised. “Arista will be here as well. We’re not technically related to her very closely, but great-aunt Evelina liked to bring her along, because she was her daughter-in-law. Evelina’s long dead, but mother keeps inviting Arista, because she feels far too old otherwise, or so she says. I think she just likes hearing Arista complain about her husband’s dog.” Narcissa nodded as they walked along the hallway and wondered if talking a mile a minute was a Macmillan trait. Lady Melania did it too, sometimes. “Oh and Arista said she’d bring along her grandson’s wife and her first great-grandchild. She’s incredibly proud, be sure to coo over the little girl.”

Narcissa looked at her, pleasantly surprised. “Serenity is coming? And Natalie too?”

“It would seem you know them better than I do,” Elaine laughed as Draco started asking after Auntie Ren.

Narcissa smiled softly at her son and took his hand as they stepped onto the terrace, so he wouldn’t run off instantly. “Serenity is one of my closest friends,” she said quietly. Elaine smiled then and Narcissa got the feeling that she had known that and had specifically arranged for Serenity to come.

They headed for a rotunda in the rose garden, where, true to Elaine’s word, Ursula Macmillan was engaged in quiet conversation with her granddaughter Cecilia. Cecilia’s mother Corinna was watching the newly married Sierra Pritchard play with her niece, while she held a boy in her lap that must have been Ferdinand Shafiq. They took their seats and Narcissa was surprised to find that Elaine had been right and she did feel right at home sitting there talking quietly to Corinna.

“Your Draco,” said Corinna, who had the same slight frame as her sister but whose hair was dark and curly where Elaine’s was fair and straight, “he looks so like his father.” It was supposed to be a compliment, but Narcissa could not bring herself to smile. “My son, Paul,” Corinna continued undeterred, “he looks just like me, I’m afraid. It’s Cecilia who takes after Lenard most. She has his hair and his eyes and the mouth, too. The eyebrows are mine, but that’s about it.” She laughed and Narcissa smiled softly.

“Perhaps it is simply the eldest children that take after their fathers,” she suggested quietly.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Corinna nodded. “But then Elaine’s eldest doesn’t take after her or Mason. Why, I rather think she takes after old Willow, bless her soul.” Lady Willow Prewett had died in the aftermath of the war. A broken heart, they said. Too much strain for one so old. She had been a plump woman, round and neither short nor tall, with hair a shimmering silver. Of course, it had been red once upon a time, but Narcissa hadn’t known her then. “The boys were all Mason, though,” Corinna said and Narcissa looked at her hands. No one was far from sadness these days. It lingered still in the most innocuous of conversations.

They sat together in silence for a while after that until Corinna cleared her throat. “I liked to tease her about it sometimes that if I hadn’t seen her pregnant I wouldn’t believe they were her children. Why, you could pass for her daughter more easily than any of them. A bit tall, perhaps, but she’s practically adopted you either way.”

Narcissa looked at her in surprise and Corinna laughed. “Surely…” she started to say, but the older woman shook her head.

“Better accept it, dear,” she said. “She’s decided that you should be one of us.”

Narcissa smiled a little at the thought. Perhaps she could be. It would be nice if it always is like this. And even so, they could be useful allies.

“Draco is such a well-mannered little boy, Mrs Malfoy,” said Sierra Pritchard, walking up to them with a child holding each hand. “And handsome, too. Does he take after his father?”

She forced herself to smile and let little Mallory Shafiq clamber into her lap. Narcissa was twenty-five and she flinched internally every time someone compared Draco to Lucius.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-six and she decided that she would never again lie for Lucius to ensure that Draco was protected. She stared him in the face and he smiled at her, that disgusting little smile that was the reason she kept her doors locked at night and hadn’t moved Draco out of her rooms until Abraxas and Isadora forced the issue. Next to him stood Cornelius Fudge, who hung on to Lucius’ words like they were gospel truth.

“I assure you, Mr. Fudge,” he said, “That any rumors that persist about my… activities during the war are simply an attempt to besmirch my good name. Isn’t that true Narcissa dear?”

One day, she promised herself as she put on a smile. “You _were_ acquitted,” she said. “I remember being questioned quite thoroughly.” And then she laughed. It was the bell-like laugh, the one that was quite obviously faked to all that knew her well. Needless to say, no one noticed that. Serenity had told her once, when her husband had stared at Narcissa incredulously when she burst out laughing, that she had two laughs, one perfect, like silver bells chiming, but fake and one that was real and that sounded _‘rather like a dying seal_ ’, according to her best friend.

“Ah, yes, yes,” Fudge nodded importantly as if he had known that all along and then Lucius steered the conversation into safer waters. He did it masterfully, she had to give him that. He had a mind for politics, but then, so did she and unlike Lucius she didn’t underestimate the women of their society. The power behind Cornelius Fudge was, after all, his wife.

There was a lull in the conversation for a moment and Narcissa seized her chance. “How is Henrietta, Mr. Fudge?” she inquired, smiling politely. There was something venomous in her husband’s eyes when he looked at her next, but Narcissa ignored him. He had better learn that she would not sit idly by while he talked politics. Not anymore. She was a Black and Black’s weren’t trophies to be paraded around. They were shrewd and intelligent, fierce and slippery, perhaps also a little wild and occasionally violent. They were certainly inclined to madness, but if her madness helped her protect Draco, then so be it. _Blacks_ , Narcissa thought as she lifted her chin and allowed Lucius back into the conversation, _are formidable opponents_. Her husband would find out soon enough that she might look like a Rosier, but she would never be one.

Narcissa could almost see the way her resolve changed her when she looked in the mirror later that night. She walked with a new purpose, her eyes shone and there was a graceful kind of steel to her movements that she hadn’t known she was capable of. In the coming months her laugh rang out in the parlor of every notable pureblood family. She learned the way they took their tea, she learned their children’s birthdays, she learned what they were proudest of and slowly, she began to learn their secrets. She stood tall, talked to all the right people and found the balance between agreement and contradiction. And soon the invitations that fluttered into the Malfoy household were addressed not to the family but to her specifically. Draco remained her number one priority, but her schedule was suddenly a whole lot busier. There was tea at Lady Iris’ to be had and a garden party hosted by the Greengrass family. She attended a ball at Rosevale Park and made endless small talk at the reception that took place to celebrate the opening of Genevieve Runcorn’s new exhibition. There was, of course, the Saint Mungo’s Charity Gala in late August and dinner at the Parkinsons’ a few days after. Lady Melania hosted a banquet and Aunt Cassie took her along to one of Magnolia Brown’s infamous soirees. Slowly but surely Narcissa’s name became a fixture on the guest lists, her smile a usual sight on the Prophet’s society pages and the invitations to her afternoon teas something sought after. She spun a net of allies and acquaintances, of secrets and gossip that stretched across the entire pureblood society and then some. And if it ever came down to it again, she would not need to stay in Lucius’ good graces. Narcissa was twenty-six and she decided that she would never again lie for Lucius to ensure that Draco was protected.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-seven and the mark on her son’s foot made it clear that he was a Black. It didn’t make clear whether he was a Malfoy or not. Whether he was a _McKinnon_. She had been convinced of that once, with Dalton by her side it had been easy. He had told her about his nephew who looked so like Draco except that he had curls. They had compared their son to old pictures of themselves and decided that he took after her most obviously, but that he had Dalton’s lips and would perhaps have his jawline one day. Perhaps it would have been easy still if he were there at her side, unwavering in his belief that Draco was his son, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t and Narcissa had heard Draco compared to Lucius more times than she could count. It wore at her, wore at what she once so firmly believed in until she suddenly wasn’t sure anymore if his hair might not be Lucius’ after all instead of hers. So one night she took her son in her arms, careful not to wake him and headed to the only person she could trust with this.

Andy’s house was still as quaint and still as lovely as it had been years ago. Despite the late hour there was a light shining behind one of the windows and it looked so welcoming, so much like a home that Narcissa almost turned on her heel and left. But then she steeled herself and walked toward the house. She knocked on the backdoor lightly and wondered what was wrong with her family that she had to visit her sister like a thief in the night.

When the door opened, Narcissa had to blink a few times until her eyes had adjusted to the sudden light and then she saw her sister, who seemed both surprised and not at the same time. They hadn’t seen each other in years, not since Andy had married Mary and Regulus in the garden behind her house, and she could see that Andy had aged. Still, time had been kind to her and her wrinkles were laughter lines more than anything. It softened her, Narcissa thought, made her look less like Bella and more like Andy. Her sister studied the sleeping child in her arms for a long moment, before she stepped aside to let them in.

Neither of them breathed a word while Andy put a dented kettle on the stove and proceeded to make tea with practiced movements. Narcissa took a seat in the exact same chair Andy had offered her when she was fifteen and watched her sister. She had aged, yes, but Narcissa could still see the girl in her that told her fairytales and taught her about soulmates. She could still see the girl that laughed at Bella and hid Sirius’ mischief from Aunt Walburga. She could still see the girl that held Regulus when he was just a tiny newborn and told her she had to look after him, because that was what family did. She could still see the girl that hid muggle novels under her floorboards and wore no stockings while at Hogwarts. She could still see the girl that raised her almost as much as her parents did. Narcissa wasn’t sure if she still resembled the girl that believed in fairytales and dreamed of happily-ever after, the girl that talked to portraits and loved Arithmancy and soulmarks and tried to raise Regulus the way Andy had raised her. She certainly felt like she had lost that girl somewhere along the way. Perhaps when her mark had turned red and then bronze or perhaps when it had turned black.

Andy set two cups of tea down on the table and Narcissa looked up. “He looks like you,” her sister said and Narcissa could have cried with relief, because no one ever said that. And she didn’t have a reply for it, so she just offered her sister a watery smile.

They sat there, while their tea went cold and neither of them said a word, because they’d forgotten how to speak to each other. And maybe also because they’d always been good at silence. “I…” Narcissa began finally. “I need to know something.”

“And what is that?” Andy asked her. Her voice was soft and gentle and Narcissa realized with a start how much she missed having her sister in her life, how much she missed having that one person that she could trust without question. Except she wasn’t sure she could still trust Andy that way and she had other people now. Serenity and Elaine and Aunt Cassie. It was not the same. It would never be the same. But she and Andy weren’t the way they used to be either.

“I never loved Lucius,” she told her sister. “You know I didn’t. How could I when I knew someone else so completely and utterly perfect for me?” She paused, looking at Draco. “I… for a long time I didn’t believe that Draco could be his son. But I find myself growing doubtful and I… I need the certainty of knowing for sure, I think.” She brushed a strand of hair out of her son’s face. “I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she whispered. Because yes, Serenity was also a healer, but if there was anything she knew about her sister it was that she could keep a secret.

“You want a paternity test,” Andy said slowly. “For your son. Are you sure?”

Narcissa nodded. “I am.”

“Alright then,” Andy got up. “Let me just go and grab my wand.” She left the kitchen and Narcissa watched her go.

It didn’t take long for Andy to return, her wand already drawn. “Stand there,” her sister said. “Do you have something of… either of theirs?” Narcissa nodded and very carefully, so as not to wake Draco, pulled of her engagement ring. Her sister took the ring and put it on the table. “I need you to stand still,” she said and began to weave a complicated pattern with her wand. She was chanting softly in a language that Narcissa thought might have been Ancient Greek, because it certainly wasn’t Latin. It took several minutes and Draco was growing heavy in her arms when Andy finally stopped chanting. She was looking at something Narcissa couldn’t see and her face was mostly expressionless, but the younger sister could see the way Andy’s eyebrows drew together just slightly and how the lines around her mouth hardened and she knew that this was Andy’s bad news face. She took a deep breath and for a moment considered telling her sister she didn’t want to know after all. But she had seen Andy’s face. She had drawn her conclusions. She might as well hear it said out loud.

She adjusted her grip on Draco and took a deep breath. “So?” she asked.

“He’s Malfoy’s,” Andy said.

Despite the fact that she knew Andy would say this, it hurt. The mark on her side flared to life for the first time since Dalton’s death. Or maybe, she was just imagining that. She looked at Draco and nodded. “Why… why did you need the ring?”

“I can test that he is your child easily, because you’re right here,” Andy told her, “But to test if he is the son of someone not in this room, I need something that belongs to that person. Or belonged to them once.” Narcissa took a step toward the table. She picked up her ring and put it back on. “You know,” Andy said behind her, “I didn’t think you’d be so attached to Malfoy’s ring.”

Narcissa froze for a moment and then slowly turned around. “What exactly did that spell test?”

Andy looked at her quizzically, but replied anyways. “If the person that ring belonged to is your son’s father.”

And suddenly, there was something light and joyous bubbling in her chest and she laughed without meaning to and without a chance to stop it.

“Cissy?”

She was still laughing when she looked at her sister. “You can’t see it,” she told her. “You can’t see it like I can. But this… this is not a Malfoy ring, Andy. It hasn’t been for a long, long time.” She looked down at her son. _Their_ son. And this had probably been a terrible idea, but maybe she’d known all along. And no matter the results of the test, he was her son and he would have remained such. Because Narcissa was twenty-seven and the mark on her son’s foot made it clear that he was a Black.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-eight and she fussed over Serenity endlessly. Her best friend laughed at her. Loudly. And repeatedly.

“This is not my first pregnancy, Cissy,” she told her.

“It’s the first time you’re pregnant with my godchild,” Narcissa pointed out and Serenity’s answering smile was just a tad too sad. They both knew why she was not Natalie’s godmother and it was not because Serenity’s husband Darren had three sisters (granted, Mary was a very rare guest these days). It was because Natalie was born in 1983 when Narcissa had still been just barely functioning enough to be a mother to Draco never mind godmother to anyone.

“It’s going to be fine,” Serenity said and when she reached out to take her hands, Narcissa let her.

“Is it?” she asked. There were few people she could show weakness to. Serenity was one of them.

Her friend smiled slightly and squeezed her hands. “You worry too much, darling.”

Narcissa just hummed noncommittally, because yes, she did. But she couldn’t help it. The war had been terrible. It had brought with it a devastating loss of life. And some of it had been life not yet born. In the wake of the war, many children had been born with their marks black as ink. These children would never know the pain of losing their soulmates and as much as she wished to never have gone through that, she would endure it again every night for the rest of her life if it meant she got to see Dalton one more time. Because he had been worth it. The happiness he had given her had been worth every single second of the pain. A life without a soulmate seemed a terribly bleak thing to her and she wished it upon no one, but this child Serenity carried least of all.

Natalie carried a mark on her skin that was bright gold in color, Narcissa knew. She had never seen it, but she had been told, the very first time she had gone to see Serenity and her newborn daughter. And Serenity, as much of a Slytherin as she was, had never been able to lie to her. And in that moment, she doubted she would have been able to lie to anyone at all. Not with tears of relief swimming in her eyes and glowing like she had.

As the years passed, less and less children had been born with black marks. It became more unusual again, an oddity of sorts. But it did still happen. And some days, when Narcissa looked at her friend’s growing baby bump all she could think of was that there was a slim chance still that this child she had already sworn to protect would never know the terrifying, heartbreaking absolutely glorious feeling of loving your soulmate.

“Don’t you dare start crying on me now, Cissy.” Serenity’s voice broke through her thoughts and Narcissa looked up to find her friend looking at their hands rather misty-eyed. “I’m hormonal, I’ll cry too.”

She wrapped her arms around her friend and laughed. It sounded teary even to her own ears. “Don’t cry, Serry,” she whispered. “Do you need anything? Tea? Cherries? A book?”

And Serenity laughed at her, which was exactly what she had been trying to achieve. Narcissa was twenty-eight and she fussed over Serenity endlessly.

* * *

Narcissa was twenty-nine and she knew Lucius was having an affair. He was at Malfoy Manor even less than he had been before and when he was he smiled more than he had in the entire eleven years of their marriage. When Draco had completely soaked him with pond water in a fit of accidental magic, Narcissa had already positioned herself between her son and the man she was married to before she realized that he didn’t even seem to mind. Here was a man, usually so prone to violence over the tiniest thing, that just stood there and brushed the incident off like the insignificant moment it was. She was so surprised that she almost didn’t notice that she could see his soulmark glow brightly through his wet, white dress shirt. If she hadn’t known before, she knew then.

It wasn’t even hard to find out whom he was seeing. In fact, it was almost laughably easy. A few well-placed questions, a couple of small favors to the right people and she knew. Calliope Goldstein was 21 to Lucius’ 30, a half-blood, former Hufflepuff and for some reason Narcissa absolutely could not fathom enamored with her husband. What was even more unbelievable to her was that Lucius seemed enraptured as well.

And she would have been content enough to let him have his happiness for he was less violent and interfered less with how she wanted to raise Draco, but that was just the thing. Draco. So she sat him down one evening, when he was at Malfoy Manor for once and made things very clear to him.

“I don’t care,” she said, swirling her wine around her glass, and he looked at her in surprise. “You can have whomever you like warm your bed or go to warm hers every night, it is of no matter to me. But there is one thing you must be aware of.”

“And that would be?” he raised an eyebrow at her sardonically as he did when he meant to gain the upper hand in a conversation, but she just smiled benignly the way she did when she knew the power in a situation was hers.

“Draco will not suffer because of it. His rights will not be touched, his place in the line of inheritance will remain his, his standing in this family will not be diminished. Am I making myself clear?” She tapped her glass with her fingernails and the sound rang out through the silent room.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed. “This is my house, my family. These things aren’t yours to decide.” He grabbed the cane that contained his wand and leaned across the table threateningly.

“You misunderstand me, darling,” she said and her voice was sugary sweet, “I’m not questioning your authority inside this house. All I’m saying is that if Draco suffers in any way, shape or form because of your actions, I will ruin her. Her reputation, her future. Any chance she had at living a normal life will be gone. And if you dare pick her side, then I will leave, the heartbroken, but generous wife that takes a step back to allow you happiness at the cost of her own joy. And make no mistake, I will be taking Draco. Lord Arcturus would surely like an heir that is not dead or in prison. And then you can try and get your father to accept any child born from your union with a half-blood.”

He sneered at her, but she could see the doubt in his eyes, the fear that she might make good on her threats. “No one would believe you,” he said. “You’re just… just a woman.”

She laughed like silver bells and put her glass on the table. “Oh yes, I’m just a woman. I’m the woman that doesn’t need to bribe the minister to get her way, because his wife confides in me. I have her ear and she has more pull than all the gold in your vault. I am the woman that can dine with the Prewetts and the Parkinsons in one week without raising an eyebrow, because unlike you I am welcome most everywhere. I am the woman that could engineer your downfall with just a few well-placed words in the right ears. And who would believe you when you tell them? After all, I am just a woman.” She got up. “Do tell Miss Goldstein I said hello. And give her my condolences that she shall never bear your child.”

She left a stuttering man in her wake, but she didn’t care. And she should have felt bad for Calliope Goldstein, but there was nothing and no one that was more important to her than her son. And Draco would suffer if Lucius had a child with this woman. Narcissa was twenty-nine and she knew her husband was having an affair.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty and she shouldn’t be neglecting her social duties, but she was. She stood at the edge of a crowded ballroom and she should have long since moved on to speak with someone else, but Penelope MacDougal had asked to borrow a moment of her time and a moment had turned into half the evening and she didn’t seem to be about to stop talking. They’d long since passed the point where Mrs MacDougal had asked to be called Penelope and had moved on to reminding Narcissa that “Nell’s fine really.” Everyone knew that Narcissa preferred to be called by her first name. So down to earth, they’d smile when she insisted. Disrespectful, they’d whisper when they thought she couldn’t hear. Narcissa didn’t care. Especially not today when Penelope rambled on and on about soulmarks.

“So you see, it would be really great if we could just get the funds for it somehow.” Penelope sighed a bit wistfully and Narcissa nodded, mostly because it was the polite thing to do. The topic of conversation brought the pain too near. “Perhaps a cooperation with Saint Mungo’s could be arranged, don’t you think? Healers must be interested in studying the effects of soulmarks on the body.” She was the kind of person that waved her hands about as she spoke without conscious thought and Narcissa found that she liked it. It had been a while since she’d been in the presence of a Ravenclaw that was passionate about something. “I’m personally more interested in the implications for our magic,” Penelope continued. “Our magic and our souls are closely linked,” she held up her hands and linked her fingers as if to demonstrate, “which is why patroni manifest in a form specific to one person, because magic is also always specific to one person. So if two people,” she reached out and placed Narcissa’s champagne on the table beside them before taking one of Narcissa’s hands in hers, “have matching soulmarks, that means their souls are linked together.” She intertwined her fingers with Narcissa’s, who watched her a bit bemusedly. “Now these two souls are tied together by a soulbond. And each of the souls is closely linked to the magic of that person.” She put her free hand on top of the one that was holding Narcissa’s. “Does that mean that the magic of these two people is also tied together?” She lifted Narcissa’s free hand up and laid it over their intertwined fingers before placing her own hand on top of it.

Narcissa smiled faintly. “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that.”

“No one does,” Penelope exclaimed, letting go of Narcissa’s hands to gesticulate wildly and the older woman picked her champagne back up. “And no one ever will if we don’t research it.”

“I suppose you want to do that, then,” she took a sip of her champagne.

The younger woman nodded enthusiastically. “If there was enough money, definitely.”

“And what would you do?” Narcissa asked her. “How do you plan to research this? Everyone I know is extremely private about their soulmarks.”

“Well, the first step is obviously to grant anonymity. I’ve found that the results one gets are far more truthful if anonymity is guaranteed to all participants no matter what they tell you. And since I usually have the interviews down in the Department, I can also guarantee that nothing reaches the outside world. Which isn’t always the morally right thing to do, but I’ve stuck to it so far.” She paused thoughtfully and Narcissa leaned forward.

“Would you only do interviews?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” Penelope replied. “I actually want to study the effects of having a soulmate on the magic of a person. Ideally, I’d have regular samples from a person before they’ve found their soulmate, after they’ve done so and then after the soulmate has died, which is a rather… ambitious project I suppose and would definitely have to be a long-term thing.”

“And in the short term you would be doing interviews?” she asked the younger woman.

Penelope shook her head. “No, I would want to see if the soulmate’s presence affects the ability to cast certain spells. The patronus for example.” Narcissa had to swallow harshly, because she hadn’t cast a patronus since _he_ died and she had no idea if she still could.

“This is rather well thought out already,” she said. “Is this your sales-pitch, then?”

The younger woman smiled sheepishly. “Was it that obvious?”

Narcissa shook her head. “Not very, don’t worry.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” Penelope said and Narcissa smiled just a little.

“I’ll help you,” she told her. “A fundraiser would do well, don’t you think?”

Penelope smiled widely. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” And then she launched into another round of explanations about what she wanted to study. Narcissa was thirty and she shouldn’t be neglecting her social duties, but she was.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty one and she stood in the graveyard in absolute silence. It had been nine years. Nine years since her soulmark turned black. Nine years since she’d lost the love of her life. Sometimes she wondered if he would love her still if he could see her now, if he would love the woman she had become without him there to stop her from going too far. She knew she was self-righteous and turned up her nose at far too many people, probably. She could be kind, of course, but only when she wished to be. And she generally wished to be only if there was something in it for her.

“I’m not a good person,” she told his grave quietly. “I don’t know what you saw in me, but I am so, so grateful that you did see it, whatever it was.” Because she shuddered to think what would have become of her had she never known him. He had taught her what it meant to be kind and gentle and how to love with everything that she was. And if not for those unwitting lessons, she would have made a terrible mother. Not the mother Draco deserved, certainly. She probably wasn’t that woman now either, but she was closer to what he deserved than she would have been otherwise.

She kneeled down in front of his grave and put the gerbera daisies she had brought in front of the headstone. The graves were well taken care of, all eleven of them, but Narcissa could never bear to look at the children’s graves. So young. So, so young. Younger than Draco was now, all of them. “I miss you,” she said, rocking back onto her heels and wrapping her arms around her legs. Draco was with Serenity. As he always was when she came here. And when she got back, he would be asleep and she would stand there watching him and Serenity would just wrap her up in her arms without a word, because they’d both learned long ago that there was nothing she could say to make it better, but she could be _there_ and that meant something.

“I miss you,” she repeated in a whisper and then she finally gave up the battle against the tears that she had been fighting all day, because it was alright to cry in his presence. “I miss you. I love you.” Her voice was just barely audible as she rocked herself back and forth.

She should go soon, she knew. Most of the people that came each year to remember the McKinnons came during the day, but Lady Lucille always held vigil from midnight to one a.m. and she avoided crossing paths with her. Lady Lucille was especially vicious in the days that surrounded her family’s death and Narcissa was very much unable to take it in stride during those days, so she avoided her whenever possible.

She reached out and touched his name on the headstone gently. “You should see Draco,” she whispered, her face still streaked with tears. “He’s growing before my eyes, I swear it. He’ll be going to Hogwarts next year and it seems like just yesterday that I held him for the first time.” She rose abruptly and wrapped her arms around herself. Then, she turned on her heel and walked away. After three steps, she turned back around and looked at the graves. Only two more months and all of them would have made it. She closed her eyes. Narcissa was thirty-one and she stood in the graveyard in absolute silence.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-two and she was sending her son to Hogwarts. Lucius stood beside her at the platform, because no matter what went on behind closed doors, in public their marriage was perfect. He put a hand on Draco’s shoulder while she leaned forward to kiss her son’s cheek. They’d said their goodbyes last night, because it wasn’t proper to show so much emotion in public. And yet, here she was only barely holding it together as she prepared to let her son board the Hogwarts express.

“You be good,” she told him softly. “And write. I would like a letter every week, Draco.” He nodded solemnly and she straightened. Then, Lucius forced her aside.

“I expect to hear you have been sorted into Slytherin, son,” her husband said and her eyes bore into the side of his head, but he paid her no mind. He’s not your son, she thought. He’s mine. Mine and Dalton’s. But she could not say that, could probably never say that, so she had to content herself with staring Lucius down. “And take care of your grades. We are Malfoys. Only the best is sufficient for a Malfoy.”

“Yes, father,” Draco said softly and Lucius nodded sharply.

“I must go. I am meeting Minister Fudge.” He turned on his heel and left. Draco watched him go an expression that Narcissa had seen far too often on his young face. It would take him a while still, to learn that Lucius was not the kind of man whose approval he should be seeking.

“Draco,” she reached out and gently guided him to a less crowded area of the platform. Her privacy spell was erected quickly and efficiently and it pained her to remember the reason why she was so proficient at these spells. Her son looked up at her, his face far too serious and she crouched down in front of him and cupped his face in her hands. “I want you to know,” she said, her voice soft despite the privacy spell, “that I will always be proud of you. It doesn’t matter what house you are sorted into and what grades you get, I will love you and I will be the proudest mother on earth.”

He looked faintly embarrassed by her words, but also reassured and she considered it a success. “What about father?” he asked quietly.

Narcissa paused for a moment. “Your father loves you, Draco,” she told him. “And he is very proud of you. He cannot show you, but he is.” _You are, aren’t you, my love?_ He looked at her silently, obviously unsure what to do and Narcissa allowed herself a smile, a real one because Draco didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of a smile that wasn’t genuine. “Go now, my dragon,” she whispered, using the childhood nickname he insisted he had long outgrown. For once, he didn’t protest.

“Goodbye, mother,” he said to her as she cancelled the privacy spell. She brushed her hand over his cheek one more time and then he was gone, headed for the train.

She didn’t cry as she watched the scarlet engine pull away, but only because she knew he would be returned to her at Christmas. She stayed even after the train was out of sight. When the last parents began to leave, she turned in her spot and apparated away. Narcissa was thirty-two and she was sending her son to Hogwarts.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-three and her family was dying around her. She had never truly shed the black of mourning in the eleven years since the war ended, but now she wore it constantly and openly. Today, they were laying father to rest in the cemetery on the grounds of Ebony Hall. The House of Black had buried their dead here for centuries, since Ebony Hall had been built in the sixteenth century. The oldest grave was that of Leda Black, mother to the manor’s builder Phineas Black I, and since then most Blacks that carried the name and had died on the British Isles had been buried here. There were exceptions of course. Aunt Cassie’s squib brother Marius, for example, was buried elsewhere though Cassie lay in the ground not far from where they stood now.

Narcissa let her eyes drift over the graves on either side of father’s. Uncle Alphard was buried beside his brother, no matter how much Aunt Walburga had raged against having him buried here after she had discovered that he had left all his worldly possessions to Sirius. Beside Uncle Alphard’s was grandfather’s grave. Narcissa remembered his funeral. It had taken place not quite two years ago with all the pomp and circumstance the occasion required, but grandfather, like father and Uncle Alphard and all the other men buried in this section of the graveyard, had been descended from a younger son, a member of a lesser line and his funeral had been nothing compared to the one that had followed the year after. Lord Arcturus had been buried in the section of the cemetery where the graves were grander and splendid in the way that according to tradition only the Lords of the house and their heirs deserved.

There was a small shrine for Regulus there, something Aunt Walburga had enforced before her death, because even though Lord Arcturus had reinstated Sirius into the line of succession, his daughter-in-law had refused to acknowledge her elder son as heir. Narcissa went there but rarely, for she knew what the other members of this family didn’t. After all, Mary’s family shared the pictures they received with her. Pictures of a woman, now not quite thirty, and her children. The children’s father was never visible in the pictures, but the resemblance was strong if one knew what to look for. He was there in their high foreheads and sharp cheekbones. The eldest had his lips, the younger brother his build and the youngest, the daughter, had her father’s eyes, complete with the razor wit and iron determination lurking behind them even though she was just five years of age. The first time she had seen one of these pictures it had only shown Mary and her eldest son and even though Narcissa had known the younger woman was pregnant when she left Britain behind, she had refused to believe it was real, because Mary looked whole in a way that she shouldn’t be. Not after what Narcissa had witnessed, what she had felt herself by then. She had wondered for a time if by taking the name Black, Mary had also taken the madness and made it her own, because the woman Narcissa saw when she looked in the mirror was broken beyond belief and such Mary should have been. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t broken and six years after Narcissa had last seen her, four years after the war had ended and two years after Narcissa had first seen the pictures, they received one that turned her world on its head. It showed Mary, her five year old sitting beside her and a baby in her arms. She had hated her for moving on, hated her for all of five minutes before Serenity had turned over the picture to show her the message written on the back. _Sometimes,_ it had said there in her cousin’s familiar handwriting, _a spark of life is all it takes._ She had wept tears of joy for the first time in what felt like forever.

Mother’s wailing sob drew her back to reality just in time to see father’s coffin lowered into the ground and as she looked around, she couldn’t help but wonder who would leave them next. Narcissa was thirty-three and her family was dying around her.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-four and she stared at the _Daily_ _Prophet’s_ front page news in silence. Lucius across the table from her thought it hilarious as he detailed to her son how Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, had gotten the boy’s parents killed. She should be stopping him, she thought as he moved on to talk about Peter Pettigrew and the twelve muggles, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the black stars on the side of her cousin’s face. Her husband was the reason for their color. He was responsible for a great many graves, she knew, but most of them were both nameless and faceless to her. All but five. And one of those five was the reason, Sirius had been lost to madness even before Azkaban. She remembered seeing him at her funeral. Silent and stoic. She remembered how the very air around him had seemed to still, how distant he had seemed from everyone else. How she had thought, even then, before the Potters had died by the Dark Lord’s hand, before Sirius had killed Peter Pettigrew, that the madness had him in its grasp. Perhaps in time it would have receded, the way her numbness had left her eventually, but he had committed crimes too terrible to be ignored before that could happen. And Azkaban was not conducive to sanity.

“Lucius,” she heard herself say. “He is but 13. There is no need for him to know this in such detail.”

Her husband turned to her, anger in his eyes, but she found she didn’t care. Because this man wasn’t just the reason for Sirius’ madness. He was also the reason for hers. The reason why the mark she bore was black as ink. “On the contrary, my dear,” he said, his voice silky, “I believe he should know this and a great many other things in such detail.”

Narcissa raised her eyes from the paper and looked at him. “Do not test me,” she told him with a saccharine smile. “I assure you, it is not in your best interests.”

Lucius snarled at her and she just raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her husband, before she turned to her son. “Draco, darling, have you finished your summer homework?”

Her son nodded solemnly as he put his cutlery down. “May I please be excused, mother?”

Narcissa inclined her head. “Of course,” she said.

Draco fled the room more than anything else and she had to suppress a sigh. She knew he hated it when she and Lucius disagreed and they rarely did so in his presence even though their agreements were by far fewer than their disagreements. After a moment of silence, her husband rose as well. He left the room without a word to her and Narcissa didn’t pretend to care. For once, there was no need for pretenses. When the door closed behind him, she allowed herself to sigh and returned her attention to the paper in front of her. Sirius, for all that they had disagreed and for all that he had done, hadn’t deserved what happened to him. No one deserved that. Narcissa was thirty-four and she stared at the _Daily_ _Prophet’s_ front page news in silence.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-five and her son was spoiled. He was completely, irrevocably spoiled. And she didn’t mind as much as she probably should, because at least it meant that he had grown up safe, without the threat of war looming over his head. Peace was a luxury she hadn’t come to appreciate until she didn’t have it anymore. And it wasn’t until later that she realized how much of her life had been overshadowed by the possibility of war even before the fighting had begun in earnest. Draco had never known that. He had been just shy of 17 months when the war ended, too young to remember the terror it had brought. Too young to remember the man the one he called father had taken from her, from them. She wondered sometimes what life would have been like, had Dalton lived. If the fight that had taken his life had ended differently. But then she told herself that it was no use dreaming, hoping, wishing and focused on what she did have. She had Draco. She had Serenity and her godson, Brennan, who took solace in the fact that Narcissa’s mark was as black as his own even if he didn’t yet fully understand what it meant. Regulus was alive out there somewhere and if she needed her, Andy wasn’t far away.

She sighed quietly and looked at the letter in her hands. As glad as she was that her son had never known war and hopefully would never know war either, he could do with a bit more discipline sometimes. Angering a hippogriff… She shook her head. And now he was demanding the beast be brought to justice, which Narcissa would understand if he truly had been attacked without provocation. But she knew her son and she could read between the lines of his insistences that were just a tad too vehement the way they used to be when he was telling her it had been the house elves’ fault something had gotten broken. 

In the next room, she could hear Lucius insisting to the minister that something had to be done about “such a dangerous beast”. He was indulging Draco’s whims as she herself was prone to do, but part of this, she was certain, had to do with discrediting Hagrid. She had never been particularly fond of the man and as much as he probably didn’t deserve what was going to happen, she wasn’t going to interfere. There were other things to do, such as reminding Draco to take the proper care around anything that could possibly be harmful and teaching him finesse in his deceptions. And of course, Elaine was coming for tea. Before she went to her apartments to compose a reply to her son’s letter, she stopped by his room and looked inside. It was immaculate, of course, but that was through the house elves’ work not Draco’s, and splendid. Perhaps it was too splendid, she thought, but what Draco wanted, he got. And she still couldn’t bring herself to care. Narcissa was thirty-five and her son was spoiled.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-six and Harry Potter proclaimed the Dark Lord’s return. It felt like a cruel joke, like fate laughing in her face, because everything she had believed her son safe from was suddenly back. The Daily Prophet was running a smear campaign against Potter and Dumbledore, too, for good measure, and Lucius encouraged the minister’s disbelief in the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but Narcissa knew better. Her husband was disappearing randomly again, holding ominous meetings with Irvin Nott and Damien Avery in the drawing room, while Crabbe and Goyle snr stood at his shoulders like their sons stood at Draco’s.

She entertained their wives in the meantime. Leticia Avery and Eleonora Crabbe were open in their support of their husbands, Menodora Nott was more careful, but she, too, seemed supportive. Cordelia Goyle was largely silent, her smile still as sardonic as it had been years ago and Narcissa caught a glimpse of her bronze soulmark on her fingertips that hadn’t been there when she was just Andy’s friend Cordelia to her. Narcissa herself chose her words carefully, making sure to sound neither eager nor hesitant as she obfuscated the truth of her feelings.

She had been raised to believe in these ideologies and a part of her always had and probably always would, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe in their methods. Not when those methods were what cost her the love of her life, her soulmate. Not when she was certain that those methods would soon cost her son his innocence if the way Lucius eyed the boy these days was anything to go by. But then, the only way she could think of for him to retain his innocence throughout the war that was no doubt coming, would be his death. And looking at it that way, it seemed a small price to pay. Certainly smaller than others she was willing to pay to see her son alive and well when this was over. She just hoped it wouldn’t last as long as it had last time. She hoped the number of children born with black marks would be less and the number of people whose marks blackened would be smaller. But she knew it was likely a futile hope, because Narcissa was thirty-six and Harry Potter proclaimed the Dark Lord’s return.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-seven and Lucius had failed to protect the thing most dear to her. He had failed to protect her son, her Draco. And so she took matters into her own hands. Severus Snape had been one of Lucius’ most trusted once and she had known him well then. Well enough to know that he had secrets, even from the Dark Lord. And a man who could keep secrets from a master legilimens was perhaps not one easily trusted to most, but Narcissa knew there was a grave he visited as faithfully as she visited Dalton’s and a man who loved with such devotion, was one that she could trust. Because a man such as that was one she could understand.

She appeared on the banks of a dirty, foul-smelling river, knowing that her sister would follow and knowing she didn’t approve, but it didn’t matter to her as she began her swift trek up the hillside. Behind herself she heard the pop of apparition, louder than it used to be, for Bella’s control over her magic had grown brittle after her years in Azkaban.

“Wait!” her sister called to her and a moment later a flash of green light illuminated the river bank for a moment. Narcissa paused, but only until the light faded, before she continued to hurry up the hillside. Bella was saying something behind her, but Narcissa paid her no mind until the elder caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “Cissy – Narcissa – listen to me –“

“Go back, Bella!” she hissed at her as she pulled her arm free of her sister’s grasp.

“You must listen to me!” Bella insisted and once upon a time, Narcissa would have. But that was before. Before Draco and before Azkaban and before a great many other things.

“I’ve listened already. I’ve made my decision. Leave me alone!” she turned from her elder sister and hurried to the top of the hill. And for once, Bella was the one following. For a moment, they stood beside one another regarding the dingy street before them. Then, as Bella began to speak the younger sister slipped away from her and made her way across the street and into a small alleyway. She realized, as she heard the footsteps echo behind her that as much as she was leading and her sister was following, the elder was also chasing and she was being chased.

She got so caught up in her thoughts and in remembering which way to go that Bella’s hand on her arm surprised her and she found herself unable to resist as she was turned to face her sister. “Cissy, you must not do this, you can’t trust him –“

Her grip was uncomfortably tight and even though she did not bruise easily despite her fair complexion, she was sure it would leave marks. But these marks would fade as the one on her side would not and it was another reason to protect her son with everything that she had. “The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn’t he?” she looked at her sister, the challenge clearly evident to her, but apparently lost to the elder woman.

“The Dark Lord is… I believe… mistaken,” Bella replied, her breath coming in short pants as she glanced over her shoulders. Most likely to make sure no one would hear her doubt the man she had sworn her life and magic to. (And sometimes, Narcissa wondered if the snake that wrapped around Bella’s arm might not be for _him_.) “In any case,” her sister continued, “we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord’s –“

Narcissa had her wand drawn before the words had fully left her sister’s mouth. She didn’t care about the Dark Lord and his orders. Not when he’d put Draco in danger. “Let go, Bella,” she snarled her wand pointed at her sister’s face. She was almost surprised that it didn’t waver in the slightest.

But Bella just laughed. “Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn’t –“

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do anymore,” she hissed at her elder sister and it was true for Narcissa was thirty-seven and Lucius had failed to protect the thing most dear to her.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-eight and she wondered why people let their skins be branded with anything but the truest of marks. She had spent the afternoon having tea with Penelope, which was perhaps why the topic was on her mind as she returned to Malfoy Manor to find it once again swarming with Death Eaters that carried on their left arms marks that she had always thought had been made in an attempt to imitate soulmarks. Her husband crossed her path as she headed into her favorite parlor. He was gaunt and haggard these days and sometimes she could find pity for him in herself for the briefest of moments until she remembered all the things he had done to her and hers. There were others here, whom she resented. Mulciber, who played with girls under the Imperius curse. Rowle, who stood by and did nothing. Avery, who came up with all the twisted little things they could make them do. Avery, who owed his life to Dalton. Not that he cared. Not that anyone cared. She threw open the parlor doors and stalked across the room to her favorite armchair. It was empty, as it always was, for they all knew what happened if you offended the lady of the house. And when she wanted to, she took offense quite quickly.

She took a seat and surveyed the room calmly. A few of the lesser Death Eaters lounged about, though her presence seemed to make them nervous. None as much as Peter Pettigrew, _Wormtail_ , who scurried out of the side door that led into the drawing room and stopped short when he caught sight of her. She had been surprised when she had discovered that he was alive. Surprised and then slowly, quietly, coldly furious, for there was no doubt in her mind now how the Death Eaters had known to attack the McKinnons on that specific day. He seemed to sense her dislike of him, because he was wary and always tread cautiously when she was in the room. Today, he offered her a trembling bow before he hurried out of the room. She wondered for a moment what the person carrying his mark thought of him, if they could love a man like that who betrayed the people that placed their trust in him. Then again, perhaps he was like Bella and his mark was silver.

As if summoned by her thoughts her elder sister entered the room, her head held high and a maniacal glint to her eyes that Narcissa had come to expect. Surprisingly, while all others seemed terrified of her, Narcissa wasn’t. Not anymore. She had seen her once proud sister grovel before the Dark Lord like she had forgotten who she was, like she had forgotten what it meant to be a Black. And perhaps she had. She certainly no longer was the hard, fierce, strong woman she had looked up to as a girl. That woman, she had been afraid of at times. But she had grown since then, grown stronger, grown harder, grown fiercer. She was no longer the easily intimidated girl of times gone by and when Bella sat down opposite of her, they met not on even ground, but one tilted in Narcissa’s favor, for her sister didn’t realize that she had grown.

“Bella,” she said evenly.

“Cissy.” Her sister’s voice was somehow always a little hoarse these days, though from crazed laughter or frantic screams, Narcissa didn’t know.

And then there was silence for the longest moment as Narcissa regarded her sister and was regarded in her turn. Though, where her own regard was calm, there was something frenzied in the way Bella’s eyes flitted over her face. “Harry Potter has not returned to Hogwarts,” she told her sister. “I have received news from Draco, but I am sure so have you.”

Her sister nodded. “We have,” she said, her eyes drifting to the drawing room door as she spoke and it was clear to Narcissa whom Bella included in this _we_. She was also certain that the man in question would not think there was a _we_ to speak of. Perhaps, she thought, that was the fate of those marked in silver. To waste away loving another while never knowing what it was like to be loved such in return. It was no wonder that her sister had warped and twisted in on herself the way she had. Had forgotten who she was, because she had no one to remind her. She had never asked her sister why she had taken the dark mark, but she was almost certain that Bella had wanted a connection to him. Another, to make up for the one that was somehow broken. Maybe, just maybe, she could understand why her sister let herself be marked. But when it came to all others the reasons were a mystery to her. Narcissa was thirty-eight and she wondered why people let their skins be branded with anything but the truest of marks.

* * *

Narcissa was thirty-nine and she lied to the Dark Lord. She hadn’t intended to when he pointed his wand at her and shot a stinging hex her way and demanded of her to check if Harry Potter yet lived as if she didn’t have a name and a title and friends in places he could never hope to reach. But then she had bent over the boy, who was younger than her son, and she thought of children dead long before their time. She thought of the anguish of a soulmate’s death and the heartbreak of knowing so many children would never know that painful joy because they were born with their marks already black. She thought of Harry Potter’s soulmate, who surely must be suffering the agonies of losing one’s soulmate this very moment. And then she reached out and found his heart still beating. Found him still so gloriously alive and it took every bit of her self-control not to let it show.

She bowed low over his body, so that her hair obscured both of their faces, and whispered the words to him as quietly as she possibly could. “Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”

And in the moment between her words and his reply, the entire world seemed to still. Everything seemed to be holding its breath for this one word while at the same time a million thoughts ran through her head. What would happen if she told the truth? He would be killed, certainly. Perhaps she as well, for being the bearer of bad news and she wouldn’t be able to find Draco. And Dalton… Dalton probably wouldn’t forgive her. He’d known this boy before he was anyone out of the ordinary, had cared for him. And truly… it would not be over if the Dark Lord won. It would never be over then. And Narcissa just wanted her peace back.

“Yes,” Harry Potter’s voice was barely more than a breath, but his reply wiped away any doubts she might have had.

She allowed herself a moment of relief, before she raised her head, her masks firmly in place. She withdrew her hand from his chest and sat up, back straight, head held high. She looked the Dark Lord straight in the eye and still her voice didn’t waver as she declared, “He is dead!” Narcissa was thirty-nine and she lied to the Dark Lord.

* * *

Narcissa was forty and she buried Bella by herself one rainy November day. It had taken the ministry half a year to release her sister’s body, but Narcissa hadn’t pushed for speed. There were other people more desperate to bury their loved ones, other people that were in need of closure more so than she. She wasn’t even sure if this would bring her closure. Perhaps. It was all she had these days. Perhaps.

She lowered her sister’s coffin into the ground and looked at it for a moment before she covered it with soil. No matter what she had done and who she had become, she had been Bellatrix Black once. And Narcissa, no matter how unsure she was about how she felt about her sister now, had loved her once. And the woman she had loved deserved a burial, even though she had been dead for over seventeen years now.

Narcissa looked at the headstone in silence. _Bellatrix Lestrange,_ it said there, _1951-1998_. And then below it the words she had spent the past six month contemplating: _Beloved Sister._ She raised her fingers to her lips and blew the headstone a kiss. “Goodbye Bella,” she whispered and she knew then as she spoke those words, that it was final. She wouldn’t return here. She wouldn’t be visiting her sister’s grave again. She would arrange to have it taken care of, but she wouldn’t come herself. “I hope you find peace, wherever you are now.”

She remained standing in front of the grave for a little while longer, before she turned away and whispered once again, “Goodbye.”

Andy stood waiting for her outside the graveyard, stoic and silent. She had refused to help her bury Bella and Narcissa understood why. If it had been Draco that had been killed by Bella’s hand, she didn’t think anything would have gotten her anywhere near her sister’s funeral. And she knew very well that she was the only reason Andy was here at all, not Bella.

“Come now, Cissy,” Andy said softly and Narcissa let her pull her under the umbrella. “Let’s go home. There’ll be tea and a story, perhaps Snow White.” She wept for the first time that day when Andy led her away. She wept for herself and her sisters and all that they had lost, all the things they had done to each other. Things so terrible that Andy was fully justified in not wanting to attend Bella’s funeral. Narcissa was forty and she buried Bella by herself one rainy November day.

* * *

Narcissa was forty-one and she met her grandnephew for the first time. He was about a year and a half of age, a little older than his mother had been when she first met her and just like her he was a wonderful child. He hadn’t yet managed to control his hair and it cascaded through a myriad of colors as she sat beside her sister and watched him play with his blocks.

“He is… a delightful child, Andy,” she said softly.

“He is,” her sister agreed. “He is. Still, I find it hard to raise him. I am his grandmother, I should be spoiling him rotten, not raising him.”

“Should is such a funny word,” Narcissa replied. “It’s… the epitome of warring with fate, of not wanting to accept that the way things are is the way things are supposed to be.”

“Are they?” Andy looked at her and Narcissa could tell that like Elaine all those years ago, her sister could see through every single one of her carefully crafted facades.

“No,” she whispered and she could feel the tears rising behind her eyes, tears that no one had been allowed to see for so long. “No, they’re not. But what are we supposed to do, Andy? We can’t change it. We can’t change anything. We can only keep going on and on until we learn to live with the pain.”

“And,” her sister said gently, “we can be there for each other. We were never very good at that, but we can learn now. Together.” And when Andy drew her into her arms, Narcissa let her, because what else was there to do?

Teddy Lupin sat on the carpet playing with his blocks peacefully while his grandmother cried into her sister’s shoulder and Narcissa promised herself then that if she had anything to say about it, he would never know war. Two generations lost because of one man’s foolishness were quite enough, after all. Narcissa was forty-one and she met her grandnephew for the first time.

* * *

Narcissa was forty-two and Harry Potter asked her about Regulus. And it would have surprised her if it weren’t for Kreacher lurking in the background. She bid him to sit, this boy who saved her life, saved all their lives, and looked at him silently for a long moment.

“What,” she asked him finally, “would you like to know?”

“What was he like?” he looked at her imploringly. “Kreacher has told me of his death, but what was he like in life?”

Narcissa smiled. “He was kind, despite everything,” she said softly, talking about her cousin in past tense easily because she couldn’t tell this boy in front of her what her beloved cousin was like now, but she could tell him what he had been like in his youth. “Not everyone could see it and certainly not at first, but he was kind. And he was young, so young. He… could be silly, just another boy, but most of the time he wasn’t, because he knew all too well what was expected of him.” Her smile turned sad at the memory of all the times Regulus’ masks had slid into place as firmly as her own and without a second thought. “He was quieter than Sirius,” she told him. “More reserved, not as quick to love or hate. But when he did love, he loved fiercely, like the lion he was named for.”

“He was named after a lion?” the boy savior asked and Narcissa laughed.

“He was named after a star,” she said. “Regulus means little king and it’s the name of a star in the constellation Leo. Sometimes, it is called the lion’s heart. And he had that. When it came down to it, he had that. But he was most certainly a Slytherin.” She paused for a moment. “I have never seen anyone as vicious in the defense of those they loved as Regulus. And there was none he loved quite as fiercely as Mary MacDonald, who incidentally was one of your mother’s closest friends.”

“You knew my mother?” His eyes were suddenly wide and she could see how much he craved any knowledge about the woman that had birthed him, the woman that by all rights should have raised him. Should.

“I’m afraid not,” Narcissa replied. “I knew of her, but I wouldn’t say I knew her. I do know Mary’s brother and to my knowledge Mary yet lives. Perhaps, there is a way for you to get in touch with her.” He nodded, his eyes suddenly alight and she smiled slightly. “Do be careful,” she told him. “I knew Mary well, once, but I have not spoken to her in more than two decades. And two decades can change a person quite a lot.”

He nodded again, but she could see he didn’t care. This, she thought, was a boy that had never learned to hide his emotions. And then, his excitement was replaced by calm and she realized that maybe there was more to Harry Potter than she had thought. “You were telling me about Regulus,” he reminded her softly and she smiled, because her cousin would not be forgotten. Narcissa was forty-two and Harry Potter asked her about Regulus.

* * *

Narcissa is forty-three and she gives in to Penelope’s pleas and tells her, finally, of her experiences with soulmarks. They hole up in a surprisingly comfortable room deep in the department of mysteries with tea and scones and time, lots of time and Narcissa mentally composes her tale before she tells it.

“I was four,” she says softly, “and I dreamed of castles and princes and happily-ever-after.”

Over the course of hours and days she speaks of Bella and Andy, who taught her about soulmarks and who took such different paths in life because of them. She speaks of mother and father, who never once broached the subject and whose soulmarks were hidden away as best as they possibly could have been. She speaks of Sirius and Regulus, who both found love so deep it tore wounds that would never heal without the one that was lost. That the wounds did heal in Regulus’ case is one of the few things she doesn’t share with Penelope, because that is not hers to tell. She discovers that she is good at bringing stories to life in an empty room as she tells Penelope about Mary, whose anguish she witnessed before she could understand it and whose strength she admires to this day, because Mary kept going, and about Barty, who loved those that didn’t bear his mark as much as the one that did, loved them so much that his grip on his sanity became tenuous when he lost them. She tells her about Elaine, who offered her comfort when she most needed it, and about Calliope Goldstein, whose chance at happiness she destroyed for the sake of her son.

Most of all, though, she speaks of Dalton. She tells Penelope about all those insignificant details that she cannot let herself forget. She tells her about the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and the way he looked when he was lost in thought. She tells her about his curls and about how he made her feel like a fairytale princess when they were together even though most of the time she felt like she was drowning. She tells her about a bond of love, deeper than any she had known before. Two souls together, she says and then she interlocks her fingers the way Penelope had done years ago when talking about soulbonds. It draws a laugh out of her younger companion and Narcissa smiles as well.

Penelope is a good listener, she finds, as she spins her tale of love and betrayal, of pain and joy, of families and lonesomeness. There are still things she doesn’t share no matter how many times Penelope assures her that it will not leave this room if she doesn’t want it to, but nonetheless it feels unexpectedly freeing to be sharing this with someone else and she is almost sad when her tale comes to an end.

“And now,” she finishes, “I am forty-three and after years and years of you asking me… here we are.” She smiles slightly and receives a smile in return. Narcissa is forty-three and she gives in to Penelope’s pleas and tells her, finally, of her experiences with soulmarks.

* * *

Narcissa will be forty-four and her son will get married and his soulmark will remain golden and she will find that maybe she was wrong after all. Not all soulmarks bring pain.

She will stand in the front row and watch them get married and she will wish for someone else to be standing at her side, but it won’t matter too much. Not on that day. Because her baby will be all grown up and he will be getting married and when did this happen? She will ask herself that question a lot on this day. When did this happen? When did I become the second most important woman in his life? When did he grow up? And how. How did I raise a decent person? How did my baby boy turn out so well with me and Lucius Malfoy for role models? Perhaps, she will think, we are not as black as our name suggests and we never have been. Sirius and Andy and Reg certainly aren’t. And she will suppose that she has had her moments, too.

And then a little later that day, the ceremony will be over and Astoria will be dancing with her father and Narcissa will dance with her son and see Dalton in him clearer than ever before. She will see him in the line of his jaw and in the smile on his face. She will see him in the green flecks in her son’s eyes and in the dimple on his right cheek and she will wonder how she could have ever doubted that this boy, this man in front of her is Dalton’s son.

She will think about all the things she wants to tell him. About her cousin Regulus, his namesake whom he resembles more than he can know. About her sister Andy, who has lost so much in this pointless, pointless war. She will think about how she will finally tell him that blood status doesn’t matter and how they will learn to believe that together. Most of all she will want to tell him about his father and about how proud he would be to see who he has become. But her son’s wedding will be neither the time nor the place to tell him these things, so she will smile and tell him, instead, how incredibly proud she is of him.

She will tell him some day. Tell him everything. But not then.

Because they will have all the time in the world. She will see her grandchildren grow up. She will see her great-grandchildren grow up. She will see them all make terrible choices, she will see them struggle. She will hold them up and stop them from going too far. And sometimes she will let them crash, because she learned some of the most important lessons that way. And she will make mistakes, too, for she won’t just stop being human because she will be a grandmother. She will not see everything. She will not know everything. She will close her eyes to Draco’s faults and she will forget the things she promised herself she would believe in, the things she promised herself she would live by. And she will fall and get up again and keep going, because no matter what time or what place, that’s what humans are best at. Before all that, though, Narcissa will be forty-four and her son will get married and his soulmark will remain golden and she will find that maybe she was wrong after all. Not all soulmarks bring pain.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Any comments and kudos are very much appreciated and make me squeal :)


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